Splintered Glass
by You're All So Vacant
Summary: AU School. CASEFIC. An unknown person has picked John and Sherlock to play against. A multi-country mass-murderer, it's obvious not everyone can be saved, but only the last move is needed to win! R&R.
1. A peculiar First Impression

**A/N- First Sherlock fic! I'm really happy about this one, got an actual plan for once! AU school, original, I know. But it will have a case. And emotional stuff, when I can be bothered to put it in. **

**A Peculiar First Impression: John.**

" I hope you have a good journey, darling, remember to send a text when you get there. Just so we know you're alright."

John cheerily nodded his agreement to his mother, not really listening to a damned word she said. He knew all to well that by the time he actually got there, the act of even picking up his phone would be entirely pointless; based upon some of their previous conversations, it would not be helpful to make the effort of communication, could even be detrimental to their already tenuous relationship.

"I'll tell Harry you said hello. And I'll get her to call you." He paused , then moved to hug the shaky woman. He wrapped both arms around her in a tight embrace, holding onto her for a little longer than necessary.

It was the first time in years that he had managed to actually feel like _her _child, rather than just _a _child. But he had gotten rather adept at reading her emotions across the last four years, and knew that, for once, she would appreciate the gesture.

"I love you, mum."

He pulled back, and was actually _hurt_ by her almost hyperactive response of "I love you too, Johnny."

Give it two hours, and he would be lucky to get a response at all. If he did, it would normally be a single statement of blind hate, and the passing of blame.

Before he could say anything potentially dangerous- which could be anything-, he bid her farewell and practically jumped into the back of the black and yellow taxi cab that awaited him.

As the school had sent it to collect several students that happened to be outside of the catchment area, the driver had no need to ask where he was headed, and took off without warning, making John frown as he reached cautiously and rapidly for his seatbelt.

As John had previously been informed, the driver stopped twice, to pick up a total of three students.

He knew two of these people already, which was unsurprising as one was his own sister, Harriet Watson. The other being the acquaintance that held tightly to the aforementioned sisters' hand. Clara.

John barely had time to relay his mother's message of wanted communication- which set Harry off fuming and had Clara kissing her in an effort to calm her down- before the vehicle came to an abrupt halt once again.

And the passenger door opened to reveal an irritated boy, who appeared to be muttering under his breath.

_In Greek. _

He took his seat whilst still muttering, not even acknowledging the presence of three other teenagers as he pulled his seatbelt on sharply.

He then did speak loudly, to rudely inform the driver that he needed to actually _drive. _

The driver was not a foolish man, and must have met the peculiar boy before, as he drove with no further questions.

At least he had actually allowed _him _time to get settled.

As they set off at a speed that had to be illegal , John politely turned to the new arrival, offering his left hand.

"Hello. I'm John Watson." The boy ran his hand lightly through unruly curls, and John had almost given up by the time he finally reached across and shook hands with him, confused expression across his formerly harsh face.

"The names Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And you are a rather odd boy, John Watson."

John could not keep himself from giggling aloud, though he did try his best.

"You find me funny." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't look insulted so much as intrigued.

"Um, Yes, I guess so. What about me strikes _you _as odd?" He sounded slightly defensive, and accusatory as he took in the sight of the teenager who was wearing a purple fitted shirt and black formal trousers.

"Don't look at me like that. I know I'm not ordinary. That, actually, happens to be the point. Because-" The remainder he said tenting his hands at his chin, and staring whilst changing between rapid blinks and none at all- "Why, would anyone with a functioning brain, introduce themselves to me?"

"General politeness?" Harry had disentangled herself from Clara long enough to send a harsh sounding response to the person who did not turn in acceptance of her speech.

He responded, but kept both eyes on John.

"Not General Politeness, you'll find the common sickening phrase missing from his introduction. 'Nice to meet you', and all that. I've never understood it. There is so little point in saying that when the first meeting could turn out to be disastrous and horrific and definitely not an experience you would care to remember. So why would anyone assume it to be nice?"

" Continuing onward, why bother to talk to me at all, then? I know what I look like, and yes, it was Greek. As you learnt from your 'cute' pen-pal two years ago."

Then he shook his head, frowning.

"Nope. That's not right. You did have a greek pen-pal, but you already knew the language conversationally, that much is obvious. You have a relative that speaks fluent Greek, your grandfather, who takes both you and your sister in for the summer."

Then he mumbled a long passage to himself, of which John heard almost nothing, and turned back to him. The end of his little monologue sounded something like 'best not mention that', and John thought it best not to ask.

The boy studied him a little longer, then realisation dawned, and his mouth formed a small 'o'.

"Obvious, Sherlock, obvious." Then , louder, "Socially awkward, doesn't spend time among others. You hate conversation, but think that if you give a casual greeting, people will do similarly, and you will be left with a comfortable silence. You think I'm odd, but you're in no place to judge, which explains why your only response to my behaviour occurred _after_ I called you on yours."

Then he grinned unexpectedly.

"So sorry to have infringed on time better spent in silence. I know exactly how you feel."

He pretended to tip an imaginary hat, then materialised a piece of paper from a space very close to the partition separating them from the driver, and read aloud from it in a flat, emotionless voice.

"He is in Tibet."

He frowned, crumpled the paper, then elegantly loped from the car as it came to a gentle stop. It was amazing in contrast to the two previous stops that John had experienced.

"I would say good day to you all, but that it stupid considering that this is probably a rubbish day for all of you. Particularly with the news just received. So, I'll say have a day of some kind, and be off."

With that he actually was gone, leaving a very confused John Watson behind him.

**A/N - First chapter done. This was an intro, to see if anyone's interested. All should be explained in the next few chapters, about their conversation at least. Also, the POV will change quite a lot, and it will be on purpose. If I accidentally wrote 'I' or anything anywhere unnecessary here though, it is because I'm used to writing 1****st**** person. This will be an actual case, at some point. **

**Also, I'm proud. I think I actually got through it without saying a strong swear! **

**Review please , let me know whatcha think. **


	2. A Peculiar First Impression Pt 2

**A Peculiar First Impression Pt 2 - Sherlock. **

A/N - This part is just what the intro was for Sherlock. (This does have an actual purpose.) So you know what he found out about John. Then the next little bit of the story should be up in about three days. It would actually push the plot along. (We all hate repetition).

"Have a good time, Shirley." His mother patted his head absently, but for once Sherlock didn't tell her off. As much as he loved his mother, he was a little grateful for the break from the constant smothering. And he also knew that when she clipped a pen to her _sleeve _(of all places- most people would put it in their hair or a spare pocket, but not his mother) she was in the middle of a case.

Or was trying, yet again, to force his father into signing the divorce papers. Either one was good for everyone, so he left it be.

"Thanks, mother. Is Mycroft picking me up?" He pulled twice at his left sleeve, a nervous twitch, which his mother noticed. She lightly gripped his arm, and he successfully suppressed a wince as she turned to face him.

"Of course, Shirley. Though why he drives that ridiculous taxi is completely beyond me. And don't call me mother, it's far too formal. Your father's not here, you know. You could relax a little." She said all of this whilst pulling at the collar of Sherlock's purple shirt and black coat in a pointless attempt to make him look smarter.

Sherlock inwardly smirked at the contrast, but made an effort anyway. (Though being overly careful not to upset his clothing.)

Sherlock slumped in a way that did not suit him, and tried his hardest at looking comforted by his mother. He could not be calm in that house, it made him feel constantly watched.

"I know, mummy, Force of habit." Then he looked up with an expression akin to that of the Cheshire cat.

"I also know why Mycroft drives a taxi all the time."

"Why, sweetie?" He now had his mother's full attention. She had always wanted him to be exactly like Mycroft, just without peculiarities and danger. Needless to say, the only one she had managed was keeping him from danger.

"It's the invisible car."

"The what?" She paused, then clapped his hands together once, keeping her palms flat together. "Oh. Shirley, that's brilliant!"

"That's not what Mycroft said." He shook his head mock mournfully. His mother laughed, shaking her head.

"I don't really want to hear what Mycroft said. No doubt unfit for an old lady's ears."

"Wasn't fit for mine, either."

Mrs Holmes laughed again, then raked a hand through her short blond curls.

"Speak of the devil, he shall appear!" As she finished the statement, a taxi raced around the corner, halting abruptly exactly outside the door.

"Well done. You've finally taken off your rose coloured spectacles."

"Don't be cheeky Sherlock, you're not perfect."

"I'm not? Mummy, that's the most dreadful thing you've ever said. And a massive lie." She hugged the boy, then waved him to the door, maternal smile upon her normally serious face.

"Don't comment on the other boy's family, okay?"

Sherlock mumbled a yes, entirely used to his mother's comments, and picked up his violin case; Mycroft had placed the rest of his luggage in the boot earlier.

He slouched his way to the car in the true style of a reluctant teen, and tapped on the window next to Mycroft's face.

"What's up with you, Mycroft. You look like someone stopped you from starting a war."

"Don't be an idiot Sherlock. You know it already."

Sherlock proceeded to bang his head against the half-opened window, the word 'shit' leaving his mouth at regular intervals in a flat, non-energised tone.

"He wont teach me, will he." It wasn't a question. Sherlock already knew the answer, and was simply complaining in his usual way."

"He's our father, Sherlock. He wants to make sure you do well. As do I."

"I don't want you teaching me either."

"Only because you know that you're often wrong, and me and dad can easily call you out on it."

"Father cannot reason his way out of a paper bag. And you, comfort eating, Mycroft. You've put on seven and a half pounds in the last two months. You're not happy either."

"Seven, Shirley. See, you're wrong even now."

"Closer to seven and a half." Sherlock then turned away, swearing foully at his own bad luck. Then at his mantra of ,'there is no such thing as luck'.

Italian, Russian, then greek as he opened the door of the taxi.

The only boy of the small group already seated looked up in surprise; spoke greek, and found Sherlock's little tirade shocking. Whether it was the fact that it was in greek or the actual words, he couldn't quite figure out.

It didn't matter. Sherlock figured that if he had already gotten to the other passengers, he would have a people free journey. Well, in mind, anyway.

"Drive, Mycroft. Or I will." He did, slightly better than he had been before, he didn't want Sherlock pointing out his normal driving habits.

He could see the blond boy looking at him curiously, and was about to harshly suggest he piss off, when the boy offered his hand. Strange, that wasn't what normally happened. They normally went straight for the face.

Then again, normally the expression of interest would be combined with that of fear and a slight morbid fascination.

"Hello. I'm John Watson." The politely offered hand was completely steady, but Sherlock could not have been anymore shocked had a pigeon flown through the window and hit Mycroft directly in the face.

As he nervously moved back, Sherlock came back to earth, and grasped his hand, still slightly numb.

"The names Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And you are a rather odd boy, John Watson."

John could not keep himself from giggling aloud, though he did try his best.

Sherlock quirked one eyebrow upwards, but had to try surprisingly hard to not join in the laughter. John's giggling was rather high-pitched compared to his speaking voice, but Sherlock did not find it annoying.

"You find me funny."

"Um, Yes, I guess so. What about me strikes _you _as odd?" He sounded slightly defensive, and accusatory as he took in the sight of the teenager who was wearing a purple fitted shirt and black formal trousers.

"Don't look at me like that. I know I'm not ordinary. That, actually, happens to be the point. Because-" The remainder he said tenting his hands at his chin, and staring whilst changing between rapid blinks and none at all- "Why, would anyone with a functioning brain, introduce themselves to me?"

"General politeness?" Harry had disentangled herself from Clara long enough to send a harsh sounding response to the person who did not turn in acceptance of her speech.

He responded, but kept both eyes on John. The youngest Holmes was not concentrating on what was being said anymore, but what wasn't.

He sectioned off his brain, remembering his mothers comment and the line his father and Mycroft always used.

"Eventually, every Holmes has to say every observation that comes to mind, no matter the damage." Sherlock's mother not being a Holmes by birth, had managed to keep her empathetic side, and Sherlock hoped to do the same. He never intentionally hurt anyone, it was just a skill he had never had to practice.

This in mind, he put a keyword filter on his speech, and silently analysed the boy next to him while his normal verbal abilities continued unhindered. Well, mostly.

_John Watson, 16 years old. Older sister, lesbian. Obvious, she's sitting right opposite, and it would only be right to assume that the girl is in a long-term relationship with her. Otherwise John would be a little more surprised, but he seems to be treating it as completely normal._

_Does look slightly awkward when he get eye-contact with one of them ,though. Not because they're gay, that's not what's bothering him. Eliminated to two. Either he likes his sisters girlfriend, or their relationship hits a little closer to home than he would like. Need more data . _

_Red line around wrist- kept a band there for too long. Too tight for him- not worn for style, would have been irritating if not painful. 2cm thick, numbers imprinted onto arm. Paper based, judging by the small cut on wrist- it rubbed awkwardly if he moved his hand._

_Hospital band. Visitors, clearly. He must have been primary contact, otherwise contact would have been sorted appropriately by an older family member. Only one relative needs the information band, contact number etc. He went alone. _

_Friend. No. Family would have been put first even if person was not close to family, immediate or otherwise. _

_Sister. Simple, Sherlock. _He shook his head, slightly irritated by the slow (for him) conclusion.

_Harry Watson. Alcoholic, suffers from depression. Rubs the back of her hand, there was recently an IV and other needles in her left arm. Tinge to her skin, yellow. Pale normally, rush to health was not all that successful. Has almost flu-like symptoms as an after effect. _

_Neither Watson child close to their parents, that mush is obvious. If John was, he would have told them. Presumably, he went as far as to visit Harry in secret; cares about his sister, but disproves of many of her choices. Strained relationship, but closer than you would expect. _

_Back to John. Shirt ironed, but only the front half. Silly thing to do, he must not be used to doing household chores. Did it himself. Mother does not look after him, clearly._

_Sister away ,most likely with girlfriend, so she couldn't even point it out for him, let alone help. _

_Avoiding her mother. Both Watson's are not particularly close to parents, wasn't always so. _

_John would have learnt to look after himself had the situation been very old, or maybe the circumstances were to traumatic for him to learn to adjust. _

_Both. Spent time with other relatives that took pity on him and his sister, but not this last summer- first one on his own with his mother. _

_Normally stayed with a close relative, someone who taught him Greek. They probably would not have taught him half the words I used- Greek pen-pal or friend. Original Greek learnt as a second language from an early age; someone who would have been around a lot. Grandparents. Father's side. _

_His mother. She stopped caring. Must have been strongly affected. John's shirt is normal other than the bad ironing, but the pocket of his jacket his covered with numerous badges, all raising awareness of something to do with the army. Wears thick boots, comfortable but worn. Outdated._

_Belonged to his father. Military father, went to war in Afghanistan. Missing person, both Watson' s seem to be avoiding wearing anything black- perhaps it's wishful thinking. _

_Mother knows something she hasn't told the kids. Lashes out, explains both of them avoiding her, if she was just depressed, they would both try to spend time with her. _

…

_Father isn't dead. Where is he?_

Sherlock frowned, as Mycroft slipped a piece of paper to him.

"He is in Tibet." Sherlock hadn't the slightest clue how Mycroft knew that, but he wasn't about to ask.

John gave him a rather confused look, but Sherlock had not forgotten what his mother had said, and so offered no more information.

"I would say good day to you all, but that it stupid considering that this is probably a rubbish day for all of you. Particularly with the news just received. So, I'll say have a day of some kind, and be off."

With that, Sherlock loped off, and headed straight for where he assumed the main hall to be.

**A/N- Next chapter will have at least one lesson, and we might meet Sherlock's father. Oh, and Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade and Molly. Reviews greatly appreciated! (I assure you, these chapters will be completely necessary later on! Hint. Hint. (The answer is almost always Tibet. ))**


	3. Siger Holmes

**Chapter three- Siger Holmes****.**

A/N- Warning, I guess. Mentions of abuse, homophobic comments, mentions of prostitution as well. 

John and Sherlock did not cross paths again for a full two weeks, when classes were scheduled to begin.

Both had not left their respective rooms at all for the first week, but were equally forced to in the second, though the two things were completely unrelated.

John, after an hour of meeting his new roommate Anderson, thought it best to divide his time between the library and the third science lab- the one closest to the library.

The handful of students who had arrived before school officially opened seemed quiet, and mostly avoided John, which he was rather thankful for.

The most Anderson dignified his presence with was a contemptuous sneer when he came to their room at night, but John did not care much for the dark-haired angry boy's opinion anyway.

*-* Page Break *-*

For Sherlock, the boredom of his room was not what prompted him to actually leave it, but was enforced by the knowledge that it would make it a lot easier for Mycroft to find him.

Mycroft currently asked only one thing of Sherlock, but he was not willing to agree, no matter how much grief it caused his older brother. He would not voluntarily go and see father.

And so, Sherlock began forcing himself out of his room, until he found the science lab furthest from his room, where he stayed for approximately four days, three hours and twenty seven minutes, when Mycroft finally dragged him out.

He had known where Sherlock was the whole time, and simply allowed him the feeling of freedom and rebellion for those few days.

It did not really console Sherlock when he was being forced to comb his hair in an effort to look a little smarter than usual.

It was a waste of time. It made his hair longer than usual. A lot longer.

Which just gave his father another thing to complain about.

In fact, it was the first thing he commented on when Sherlock trudged into the room, ordered by the smug, yet commanding, smile on his brothers face.

"Stand up straight, Sherl- you sissy! You need a haircut, boy, you look like a whore!"

Sherlock smirked, it wasn't like his opening lines were anything unusual.

"It's lovely to see you too, father. Now, thoughts in order. Do I look like a whore normally, or is it just that with this hair?" There was a slight pause as he run a hand lightly through his hair. Siger followed the movement, eyes narrowed.

" Oh, I get it. I look like whoever you spent last night with! She must have been a really attractive woman!" He could hear Mycroft suppressing laughter by the doorway; though he was closer to his father than Sherlock was, he was always proud when Sherlock stood up for himself.

"Man, Sherlock." (He said this similarly to how he would comment on a sofa, or a Lillo.)

It did bring a smirk to Sherlock's face though, more amused by before, and Siger Holmes pounced on it like a wolf.

"Wipe that smirk away, insolent boy." Then , in an only slightly kinder tone, "Mycroft, how lovely for you to join us. Please step around the door."

The elder Holmes brother did as ordered, carefully placing a blank expression on, smiling in a way that could be interpreted as anything.

Sherlock thought he looked smarmy, but refrained from commenting. Siger thought he just looked happy to see him, but, also, was not immune to Mycroft's abilities.

"Is that a real smile, Mycroft, or just one you would show to a woman?"

"Both, father. Unlike you, I can smile in any vaguely pleasant situation-"

"That's definitely fake then. This is hardly pleasant for any of us. I'm going back to my room."

He had barely taken two steps before the sound of a gunshot resonated through the room, the door having been ordered shut by the pistol of Siger Holmes.

They all vaguely heard a shrill shrieking of 'domestic environment', but Sherlock was the only one remotely interested by it.

"Who's shot near her? The sound isn't really that noticeable unless you're accustomed to it; that gun in particular, can be compared to dropping or throwing a heavy object. She knew it was a gun."

"She's annoyed me in the past."

Both young Holmes' looked slightly shocked, something that only youth gave them. Give it two years and they would never be shocked again.

"Boredom, sure, shoot. But annoyance? Where's the point? If annoyed, you probably didn't even observe anything from shooting. Where's the point?"

"There's another problem, Sherlock. You don't _do _anything. You don't react."

"You said-"

At this point, Mycroft took a step closer to his brother, and they simultaneously finished the phrase,

"Emotion is baggage, baggage in unnecessary, and unnecessary attachments lead to ruin!"

They had both had it drummed into them since Mycroft came home saying he had a girlfriend.

He had been eight years old.

"That does _not _tell you to sit on your arse and do nothing! Reaction is necessary, just as it is key to stay unattached. Emotion is pointless, vengeance is not."

Sherlock and Mycroft both inwardly sighed, holding back every counter-argument they had each reasoned throughout the years.

"Yes father, sorry father." Sherlock bowed his head, a learned action of self-preservation. It had taken the second hospital trip for him to turn to something that pathetic, but Sherlock was anything but stupid.

Mycroft hated it. It was just so _not_ Sherlock.

"Actually, father, Sherlock has spent the last few days in the lab, conducting experiments." Mycroft tried to say it lightly, but it was a clear fail when both of the other Holmes's glared at him.

"Well, Sherlock, you didn't tell me this! You been trying out different bombs?" On the word 'bomb' , Siger sounded very nearly happy.

It was funny how to some odd individuals, the word experiment actually sounded remotely like the word bomb. Siger's turn of spirits, however, quickly reversed again a half-second later, when Sherlock sullenly mumbled,

"No, father. I could just Google it. Have actually. Found a whole organisation of bombs by page six. Only took two attempts at getting the right keywords. I am perfectly knowledgeable in the way of bombs. From this, the only thing I would need to look at would be the different strengths if compounds, and extra damage. Not that I don't theoretically know already."

Sherlock saw Mycroft's oddly proud smile, and gained a little more confidence. He could have done without his natural sarcasm though, it was something his so-called father figure had always hated.

"Of course, you would be just ecstatic if I blew up the school!" He waved his hands animatedly as he talked, but dropped them around his stomach protectively as his father turned an interesting shade of red.

"Don't talk like that Sherlock, it's disrespectful. One must respect thy father!" Neither of his atheist sons pointed out that the phrase also included thy mother, but Siger had carried on talking anyway, so it wouldn't have made the slightest difference.

"You wouldn't even have to activate them _in _school." Siger picked the strangest things to get really irritated about, but Sherlock wasn't complaining. On some days, the comment about the prostitute would have given him a broken nose or multiple bruises.

It seemed Siger was losing it a little. For him, anyway. Most people had thought he was always an evil, hot-tempered man, and their mother often said he was livid at best. Having trouble concentrating, not taking in information.

That was the only thing about him that really worried Mycroft, and that was for fear of his own mind. Aging.

"Then what would be the point of making them in school? You must be thinking of those plastic things, and those hand grenades, anything used in major wars. They are straightforward. Hardly what I want to know."

"Well, what would you like to know? How to make Sarah Jane's sonic lipstick?"

"Impossible. I don't have a clue who Sarah Jane is, but a lipstick is not sonic, it must be a trick. Of course not. I want to know what criminals use, murderers. People who _really _think, people who need to cover their tracks.

In a war, the only murderers are the countries themselves, the people in charge. Not individuals with mistaken beliefs and delusions of queen and country. They kill as told and come home heroes. They are voluntary weapons. They don't know the people on the other side, it's never personal."

Siger laughed, a harsh sound, he was genuinely amused by his youngest son, but any laughter from the old miser was unnatural.

"Everyone's a weapon. So what _were_ you doing, if you were avoiding anything of interest?"

That one sentence pretty much summed up Siger Holmes. The only things he showed enjoyment and interest in involved destruction and terror. And he never cared who he inflicted it upon.

Siger stood up as Sherlock was about to respond, which Sherlock to curl in a himself, then utter an incoherent line that had something to do with a human body, and time after death.

"Death, you said? Well, boy, going to tell me about it?"

"N-n-no. I don't want to." There was only a hint of Sherlock's usual stubbornness, and it was mostly hidden by fear.

It was no wonder that Sherlock had no desire to explain something he deemed important to his father. Everything said to him was ammunition. Both Sherlock and Mycroft knew that and time Siger specifically asked to see Sherlock, it was to teach him some sort of supposedly important life lesson.

The only lesson he had ever really learned was that he should keep his mouth shut. Also, that his very presence, even when requested, could very easily aggravate others.

"Tell me, Sherlock."

"I-um- have procured a human body from the morgue. I am using it for a number of things." he paused, hoping to have placated his father, but had no such luck.

"And? What exactly are you doing? It had better no be something illegal. (And yet he did not question as to exactly _how _Sherlock procured the body from the morgue.) everything you do reflects badly on me, you know."

Everything. That did not give Sherlock incentive to continue, but he knew it wasn't optional.

"I've put electrode in the brain. I'm trying to figure out what personality type he was. See how he would have responded to different stimulus. It could be highly useful.

Also, I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death. As he died from supposedly natural causes, I'm also watching responses and deterioration of major organs."

"Coagulation of saliva, that's disgusting! Personality type, why bother?"

"Because-" Sherlock didn't really get a chance to respond.

"Let me make it easier for you, boy. There are two types of people in this world. Normal people like me, and the majority of others. The majority, hence why it's normal. Then there are the fags and freaks like you."

Defiance flared in Sherlock's eyes. He had had enough. Admittedly, it was the belief that Siger wouldn't hit him in his own work environment that allowed him to respond, but he hadn't quite calculated for his father's evil temper.

"No there's not. Mycroft isn't like either of us. And if you go into town, you'll find whole family's with parents nothing like you, and men that don't have to fuck a whore a week in an attempt to feel powerful."

It was only fear that stopped him normally from responding like this; he still had survival instincts like any other mammal. He no longer cared for his father's approval, not on a conscious level, he hadn't for years. It didn't matter to him if he was disowned and forgotten about, it was all an improvement to him.

He quite liked being alone.

And he didn't like to be touched. Ever.

It was disgust rather than the shock that caused Sherlock to recoil slightly as Siger Holmes rounded on him, and struck him hard across the face, the multiple ugly rings cutting into his cheek.

Sherlock then froze, awaiting the next blow, but Mycroft had run into the centre of the fray, and was gently attempting to hold block Siger and simultaneously guide Sherlock from the room.

Mycroft had Siger subtly knocked out within seconds, and turned to Sherlock, who still hadn't moved an inch, digging tissues out a pocket in an attempt to clean Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock did not accept them, and knocked his brother's hand away emotionlessly.

"I don't want your pity."

Sherlock strode flatly from the room, not bothering to try and stop the blood that was staining his collar.

Mycroft knew better than to follow, and silently left to his own rooms, mummy Holmes's key understanding phrase echoing through his mind.

_One can only fake so many smiles before they are completely broken. It's like a rubber band, forced into shape. Eventually, it snaps. _

*-* page break *-*

The events of that meeting took their toll on Sherlock, though the only reaction that appeared was the newfound energy he put into his experiments.

He did not sleep for a full three days, so intent he was on monitoring everything. This was on top of the two sleepless days before said encounter with Siger Holmes, and so he eventually collapsed with exhaustion onto the unmade bed the very second he stepped into dorm room 221.

Having been awake for so long, he slept for a full 12 hours, and so did not hear his alarm, the unholy irritating noise that tried to order him to get ready for school.

Not that it bothered Sherlock in the slightest.

When he eventually awoke, it was five minutes before his first lesson was scheduled to begin, and Sherlock had already missed breakfast and the start of school assembly, neither of which he cared for anyway.

The school did not have a uniform, just a dress code, and that made getting ready a lot easier for Sherlock, whose wardrobe was almost all black white and grey anyway. He just had to be careful to avoid the occasional splash of purple.

At least, that's what he assumed the dress code to be, from his view out the window. He hadn't read the welcome leaflet.

He picked up his plain leather bag, and left the room without grabbing hold of the map.

It wasn't a problem.

He had already memorised his timetable, and schools were not the most confusing of buildings. It also helped that he didn't care when he arrived.

The first lesson was citizenship, a subject he detested , but this school had made it compulsory.

It didn't mean he would actually make an effort, though. The only thing that could interest him would be his classmates, and their definitions of a citizen.

Sherlock figured out which room it would be, then took a fairly long route to get there.

And he was still only 10 minutes late.

Hoping to God that the teacher was not an acquaintance of either Holmes relative for multiple different reasons, he slammed the door open as hard as possible, determined not to show any weakness.

As the door crashed to the wall, the entire class turned to face him, varying negative looks on their faces, apart from that John Watson, who just looked curious, and the teacher, who did not show the slightest sign of reaction, but carried on writing on the board as if nothing had happened.

He finished writing, then turned to face Sherlock a small but calm smile on his face.

The man was in his mid-twenties, with dark brown eyes and strange grey-blond hair, of a shade that said it was completely natural, but not recent. It seemed his hair had always been that colour, and it would be easy to picture him as a child with a grey tuft of hair.

Among other things Sherlock observed, he was wearing a carefully applied, thin line of eye-liner.

It wasn't obvious, but done in a practised manner that suggested he wore it everyday, now a habit, knowing that it suited him.

…Gay…, Sherlock refrained from saying it aloud, for he couldn't help but immediately like the open-looking, seemingly friendly man. He knew schools, and there was little worse than a mob of closed-minded teenagers to subject him to.

"You must be Sherlock. My name is Lestrade, I will be your citizenship teacher for the next year. Please, if you could take your seat next to Anderson, then I can continue the lesson."

It took Sherlock two seconds to notice who Anderson was, worked out from the now sullen expression upon the boy's face.

Sherlock sat, and sub-consciously covered the self-administered stitches with the palm of his hand, turning as far away from Anderson as possible whilst still being able to see Lestrade.

Then he realised that Lestrade seemed to deal with him a little _too _well. No shouting, no warning, no comment on how late he was. Not even a sympathetic remark from the door.

Either Lestrade was used to it, or he associated with Mycroft, for this person would never be in contact with Siger.

It seemed the first ten minutes of the lesson had been administration, and maybe a short course outline, for everyone had books out, and Lestrade had not yet started explaining the first assignment.

There was a book in Sherlock's space as well, but the details had already been filled out in an elegant, flowing script.

It was most definitely Mycroft's handwriting.

That explained everything. And Sherlock had already guessed what the first topic was.

Lestrade was looking slightly uncomfortable as he put a DVD into a player.

The class had an introductory video to the _community _unit, which involved working as a team, sexism, racism war and 'what makes a community'.

Sherlock guessed before he pressed play that this particular video would go down like a lead balloon.

The video comprised of a series of clips. There was a suicide bombing, the Martin Luther king 'I have a dream speech', a very short clip of the London Riots, a slave trade market, a poor African family all working together, a man and a woman in a domestic fight, a street fight, some homeless people, and two men, holding hands.

In the last clip, the couple were walking down a road together, talking normally, clearly headed home from a night out. Then they got assaulted by a gang. The rest of clip was one of the guys trying to cover the other one as the gang were shouting, throwing things and beating them.

It made Sherlock want to cry. But, strong as he was, he cleared his face of all expression as the light turned back on, the DVD stopped, and Lestrade shuffled to the front of the class.

"Alright, guys. Can anyone pick the odd one out? There is more than one answer."

Sherlock had a feeling that whoever answered would not pick either of the two clips that gave a proper answer.

And he was right.

It was a dark girl with frizzy hair who put her hand up, and Sherlock disliked her immediately as she smirked at Anderson before answering.

"The faggots at the end. That's a choice. Their just odd. It's wrong. Unnatural. None of the other clips were wrong."

The class nodded their agreement. Sherlock saw John, who was glaring at the floor, refusing to get involved. _socially awkward. _He didn't want to draw attention to himself.

That _used _to be Sherlock's problem too. But then he say how deflated Lestrade also looked, and couldn't stop himself from responding.

"What's it like in your funny little brain? You can't even think. It must be so boring!"

"Excuse me? Do you think you're smarter than me, huh? How am I wrong?"

"That's not the odd one out. Well, it could be, I guess, but not on your reasoning. The riots, that was a choice. A poorly made one by many outraged, over-the-top protestors. Suicide bombing, that's pretty much a life choice, I'd say. Or a death, choice. Pick your wording.

A lot of them were considered wrong to many of the people then and now. Allowing people to attack people, that's wrong. Staying with someone you fight with all the time, that's probably an unnatural, poor choice. But it's their choice. Sitting here with your homophobic comments rather than noticing the people on the street, that's a little odd.

The point of that clip wasn't that they were gay."

"Then what was it?" Anderson glared at him. Apparently, he wasn't fond of Sherlock looking down on Donovan.

"That fact that random people were attacking them! Or did you not see that part whilst you were turning your head in disgust? Honestly!"

"Then what is the odd one out?"

"Either the family that all stood together, or the Martin Luther King speech. They both have an actual sense of community, people helping each other, getting through to people."

Sherlock was dumbstruck. John had actually talked!

There was a chorus of 'oh' from the less angry half of the class.

"Correct. That's what we were looking for, Mr Watson!" Lestrade seemed slightly cheerier.

Donovan, however, still wasn't happy.

"Where you one of the fags, freak? You look like someone beat you up."

"In a manner of speaking, I guess so. But, to be honest, you lot are all so vacant that it would take years for you to understand what I mean."

Anderson jumped on him. Wrestling him to the ground. "Don't look down on us fag, your scum!"

He hadn't seemed to think of a plan past getting to Sherlock, and before Anderson could do anything else, he had been thrown off of Sherlock by a shaking and awkward looking John.

John helped him up, and once standing, Sherlock realised he had blood dripping down his chin; his stitches had opened up.

"Class Dismissed! All of you, get out of here! Now! Sherlock, John, if you could stay behind, please."

The class pretty much ran out, a chorus of nasty comments leaving with them, until only the three of them remained.

Lestrade looked concerned, but he couldn't conceal the proud smile that had spread across his face.

A/N- I tried to convert all of their characters pretty smoothly, but let me know if I f*ck*d up royally! Comments, please! Oh, and anyone else think Lestrade should wear eyeliner? Also, not proofread. Feel free to point out any major mistakes!


	4. Siger Holmes Pt2

**Chapter four- The OX ring.**

Once the door had been shut and both teenagers had made their way to the front of the room, John pulled out a wad of tissues from the box on the front desk, and this time, Sherlock held out a hand to accept them.

He did not hand them over, but stepped forward and gently gripped Sherlock's chin, carefully wiping away all the blood, then cringing as he saw the extent of the marks on the other boy's face.

Close up, the stitches were clear, and John gasped, pulling back his hand slightly.

"You did these bloody stitches yourself, didn't you?"

Sherlock gave a very slight nod, still slightly confused as to why John Watson was bothering to help him at all.

"Why on earth would you do that? It must have been terrible!"

"Obvious, isn't it? I couldn't get anyone else to do it, could I? Not everyone wants to be a doctor, you know."

John didn't even look surprised. He seemed to have resigned himself to having all his details known by the strange Sherlock Holmes.

"Mycroft would have." Lestrade had joined them, now holding a plain green medical bag.

"Mycroft couldn't." Sherlock bluntly mumbled back. He felt none of the usual happiness at being proved correct.

It was a little disconcerting.

"You'd be surprised." Lestrade responded in a low voice, now unzipping the case.

Sherlock wanted to know when either Mycroft or Lestrade had to get stitches; one of them had obviously been seriously injured. He immediately bet on Mycroft or both, he had seen Mycroft injured at 'work' enough times and he couldn't really picture this guy getting into trouble on his own.

Fixing it, yeah, the man seemed genuinely helpful, not instigating some nasty situation.

"Hmm. Is he any better than me?"

"About equal on himself, though he can do stitches with either hand equally poorly. He's rather good at sewing up other people though."

"When did you need stitches? Actually, never mind."

"Already got it? You're nearly as quick as Mycroft always bragged."

"Bragged? The only thing I do that Mycroft likes is irritate apparently important people. He finds it funny."

"So long as it's not him, I'd imagine." Sherlock looked at John, who had grabbed hold of the kit, and was organising as he went.

"Quite correct." He tried to take equipment from John's hands, but he wouldn't let go.

"Hand it over, John, you don't have to pretend to be my little nurse. Of course you can do stitches, theoretically. I've had actual practice on this particular cut." Sherlock was a little shaken, not sure how to deal with John's completely innocent need to help.

Sherlock wasn't used to people wanting to help.

"Yeah, and look at your first attempt. I can do it a damn sight better than you can."

He steered a dumb-struck Sherlock into a seat, then turned to Lestrade, who had been originally planning on doing the stitches himself.

"I've got it."

"Okay, if you're sure. Call if you need an extra pair of hands. I need to send a couple of texts."

Lestrade stepped back a little, then pulled out a rather old phone, and started texting.

"It's fine." John calmly stated as Sherlock reached forward again, tapping at this hand.

"No, it's not."

"Just stay still, you'll be all fixed up in a minute."

Sherlock looked vaguely like he still wanted to protest, but obediently stayed completely still as the shorter boy got to work. He braced himself for the rather small amount of pain that had occurred when he first secured the wound, but felt none.

In fact, the stitches _tickled _and Sherlock found it difficult not to squirm.

"It doesn't hurt. It was horrible when I tried sewing it up." He sounded accusatory, turning to look John in the eye the second he had stepped away, and was beginning to clear up.

"Yes, well. Unlike you, I actually know what I'm doing."

Sherlock smirked, and opened his mouth to respond, only to have someone else beat him to it.

"Yes, Sherlock, but Mr Watson probably did not pour chemicals onto it to try and speed up the process."

Mycroft Holmes placed his umbrella by the door, then turned to survey his younger brother.

"Isn't that right, Sherlock? Though by the looks of things, it has actually helped. You look a lot better than you did the last time we talked."

He smirked slightly at the glare emanating from the youngest Holmes, then walked over to Lestrade, who smiled fondly at him.

"Thank you, Greg. Lord knows how long it could have been before I saw Sherlock again.

Though I do wish you would get a Blackberry."

"I like this phone." Lestrade's tone of voice suggested that it was a very old disagreement.

It made Mycroft smile though, and he reached out a hand to Lestrade's, then remembered Sherlock, and backed away again.

"You are having a laugh Mycroft. Of course I already knew."

Sherlock raised his voice quite a lot, but it was flat and no-where close to shouting.

"Quite. Why do I even bother?"

"Because, you weren't even hiding it from me. I don't flatter myself in thinking that you take me into consideration even when it comes to your relationships, Mycroft. To be honest, I don't really care. You like not having father know."

"Father? You mean?" John looked a little bewildered by it all.

"Yes. Mycroft is my brother." Sherlock stated quickly and dismissively, then turned back to said brother, scowl settled upon his features.

"Uh, let me think. He's clearly gay and obviously closely associated with you. Hardly rocket science."

"Hey, I didn't notice until just then."

"That's because you're an idiot." He then gave the slightly disgruntled boy a quick, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Practically everyone is."

"What I don't understand, is how father hasn't noticed. He shouts about me, and I _don't _have a boyfriend. Slightly unfair." He gave a fake sniff.

"Oh, the make-up. He notices you wearing and smelling of make-up, and assume you've been with a woman. Convenient dress sense, Lestrade." He gave him a sincere smile, for though he was annoyed at Mycroft, he was glad that by sheer coincidence, his brother had a cover.

"Exactly, Sherlock. My luck is that I _do _have a boyfriend." He subconsciously wrapped an arm around Lestrade.

"No wonder you never listen to father. You've already proved him wrong." Sherlock seemed slightly cheery; he really did like Mycroft when he wasn't plotting against him. It was a shame really, caring siblings and arch rivals were their only two settings.

"Exactly. Sherlock, John, you may want to get ready for third lesson. You have escaped second, but you will get reported for truancy if you miss two. Greg will put a post-it on the register to explain your absence for this lesson, okay?"

They both nodded, and went to their seats to pack away their things; Sherlock's was all strewn around, and they had been preoccupied before.

They went to exit the room, leaving the couple, but Mycroft stopped Sherlock once again.

"Shirley, you've always been more than a little vindictive, so this should make you a little happier. The ox ring actually broke. You should know that father tried to charge with the bill for it, but mummy cut him off from your account. How she even knew what he was doing is absolutely beyond me."

Sherlock laughed, a harsh quick laugh. It said he was amused, but it was at war with something else, something far less pleasant.

"That's brilliant." He clapped his hands twice, then followed John from the room.

Mycroft stared as he left, then wrapped his spare arm around Lestrade, trapping him in a warm embrace. Lestrade reciprocated the small gesture, and they both started talking, not caring about the odd look they got from a student who passed through the classroom.

A/N- Short chapter, (really just the second part of 'Siger Holmes') but had a hint of Mystrade, and the next chapter will introduce the case! Please Review, Reviews are love! (Ox ring, hugs if you recognise it!)


	5. A Murder in Greece

Disclaimer: I'm not cool enough to own Sherlock. *sob*. Oh well. It wouldn't be nearly so cool if I did, I assure you.

**Chapter five - A Murder in Greece.**

After this, Sherlock and John did not fall into an easy camaraderie. John, feeling awkward, and a little like he had intruded upon Sherlock's privacy, did not try to get anymore answers, and without actually looking for Sherlock, no-one could ever hope to find him at a remotely convenient time.

Sherlock, under the belief that it was only John's caring nature that had prompted him to help, did not try and talk to him , despite the fact that they had a few lessons together, and were both alone and silent in all of these lessons.

Sherlock thought that even if John had considered him an easy person to talk to, he would have been scared away by Sherlock's conversation with Mycroft.

They did, however, start up a communication of sorts, though were never talking at the same time, but always responded in precisely the same spot.

This, of course, was the easy method of relieving boredom in schools, and one I'm sure many of you have tried out.

The very simple idea of scrawling across an old desk.

Sherlock, through boredom in maths, decided to start drawing on a desk, only to find someone else's artwork already there.

In this class, Sherlock was being assigned work that was supposedly two years above his own class, and the difference in topic made for an easy excuse not to talk to anyone.

He had never said a positive word to anyone in the room, and so received quite peculiar looks when he let a small giggle slip at the work he had found.

He ignored them all, and they quickly returned to work, allowing Sherlock to lean to the table in order to examine the drawing in more detail without being closely observed.

The picture itself was amusing to Sherlock, a fantastic piece, detailed, well-proportioned and accurate. The subject matter was that of a man hanging, damage to the neck drawn in, a broken hand, even shading on the man's trousers that showed excretion as he died.

It was a very nearly perfect drawing, possibly the only reason why the cleaners had yet to remove it.

The artist was left-handed, Sherlock could tell by the lilt of the writing that was directly below the artwork.

_Spot the mistake._

Sherlock's eyes widened, ecstatic that the classroom finally offered him something **interesting, **then scanned over the picture, a frenzied, searching look upon his face.

It took a while to spot, and he had to think about theories of hangings and traditional paintings to understand it.

The noose had seven coils, something he had originally thought nothing of. The common phrase suggested it needed one more.

Sherlock laughed silently, to avoid disrupting the class once again ,and scrawled the answer as neatly as possible underneath the question.

'_Eight coils to the noose.' _

He looked at it, and could help but feel that his handwriting ruined it, but after a pause left it, signing in bottom in tiny letters. _-SH_

Sherlock knew it was John who had done the drawing, though there was no signature, and so the pattern began.

One of them would come up with a puzzle, either visual or written, and the other would solve it in their next maths lesson.

Neither of them tried to confront the other for a good two months, until the day Sherlock awoke to a short but constant rapping upon his bedroom door.

He mumbled a half-hearted 'go away' until Watson got bored with waiting, and decided to call loudly through the door.

"Sherlock Bloody Holmes, open this door, or I'll do it myself."

At this, John heard the crashing sounds of many things being knocked over and broken and the door was opened to reveal a rather dishevelled Sherlock.

It was a Saturday, and Sherlock, with a lack of anything better to do, had actually been sleeping.

The rest, however, had not helped much in relieving his eyes of the purple bags beneath them, and John peered curiously at them as he entered the room.

"When was the last time you slept? Seriously, you look terrible."

"I was just asleep, thanks for stating the obvious. You look dreadful too, and how exactly were you planning to break into my room?"

Sherlock loudly announced all this in a clear rush, the words nearly merging in the middle, then slowing considerably at the end, talking more to himself than John, who was staring in horror at the mess that covered Sherlock's floor.

"Tea?"

"Please." John perched on the end of Sherlock's bed, eying a Petri-dish with ominous looking black stuff in it with a mild interest.

"You still haven't told me how you planned to break in."

John accepted the tea Sherlock held out with a small nod of thanks.

"I didn't. It's not technically breaking in, Mycroft gave me a key."

"He always did like to disrespect my privacy. This must be important, though, why are you here?"

John frowned, worriedly. "Have you not yet read the paper?"

"Uh, no. I told you I was asleep."

John handed him a newspaper clipping.

A woman had been murdered in Greece, apparently by ritual, though neither the English nor the Greek police had known what to make of it.

"The woman was English, a tourist. No connection to anyone in Greece, clearly planned; she had been picked out."

"Yes. I must say, John, this is a bit beyond our usual puzzles."

"I know. But her name was Shirley Johnson, and I noticed something peculiar when I was reading the article."

"What? What did you spot? You couldn't have seen anything I haven't! And I think her name is probably irrelevant."

Sherlock irritatedly brushed his hands across the article, prepared to check the whole of it again.

"It's not. And it'll take you a while to spot. You see, this article was originally in front of the puzzle pages."

"Oh. Well, show me then."

"Have you got a pen?" Sherlock handed one over from atop the item that was supposedly a desk, and John quickly drew two lines across the article, right down the middle.

He then handed it back to Sherlock; no further explanation was needed.

"I have a little problem for you to solve." Sherlock enunciated clearly, then turned back to John. "What haven't you shown me?"

"Give us a second, Sherlock. How did you know?"

"I didn't. I saw. Why would you be bothered by this unless you were positive it was meant for us, or for people in general. Could have been coincidence, your smart enough and also foolish enough to consider it. Now, hand it over."

John did as instructed, frowning slightly.

"Was this emailed to you, posted, what? This is a shiny, coloured photo print, where did you get it?"

"That's what was strange, Sherlock. It was pinned to our maths table. One piece of cellotape, right over all the other drawing and writing. Oh, and both of our initials are on the back."

Sherlock tuned into over, and as John said, their initials were on the top. There was also a message, typed, that had been glued to the picture.

**Care to come out and play? **

A puzzle, designed for them. The picture was indeed as the newspaper described; clearly the same person. The photograph was perfect, full-colour; it was almost like the photographer wanted to give them as much evidence as possible in that one shot.

The body was artistically arranged, sitting, head facing to the side. Blood was dripping down both of her arms, but that wasn't what the two boys attention was immediately drawn to. There was writing all around the room in which she was situated, in two languages. In blood, two rings of writing, an inner ring in Greek, and an outer ring in another language, with which neither of them were familiar.

Her head was angled deliberately; it made her chin point towards a charcoal piece of artwork on the wall; a mother holding a child.

Both boy's knew of the picture, whether it was a copy or the actual picture didn't yet matter.

"Kathe Kollwitz." They simultaneously stated when Sherlock pointed at the picture, then each turned to the other, surprised.

After this, they only looked at the picture a little longer, but each noticed a normally unimportant fact in the photo.

John, that there was an army medal pinned to her throat, only just in view, and only recognisable if you were familiar with them.

And Sherlock could not help but notice, she was wearing a ring. An ox ring.

Neither commented, but filed the information away for later.

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the clipping and photo, then ran from the room, only to return a moment later, when he realised that John was not following.

"You could just sit, doing nothing…or you could come with me."

"Where are we going?" John joined Sherlock, and walked slightly behind him, as he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on.

"Library. We need to use the scanner. And find out what language that was."

A/N- Just introduced the case! Yay me, and all that jazz. I tried to keep everyone in character. I have a feeling it will get more difficult later on. Read, review etc. Reviews are love!


	6. The puzzle Unfolds

**Chapter six- The puzzle unfolds**

In the library, Sherlock motioned John over towards a scanner and photocopier, then handed him the evidence.

"Two A3 copies of the whole thing, one in full colour, the other in black and white. Then four A4, one of each quarter of the picture. I'll be back in a second."

Sherlock melted away into the bookshelves, leaving John mumbling the seemingly easy instructions under his breath in an attempt to ensure he would remember everything.

John proceeded to do exactly as instructed, going so far as to print an extra lot, A4's of where all of the segments meet, made by scanning in all of the A4 other in various combinations.

He even labelled them in a black permanent marker.

By the time he had finished, he heard a loud clattering of books being dropped, and Sherlock emerged from behind a shelf, three books in hand, and the voice of an aggravated librarian following after him.

"You, mister come back here at once! You must clear up your mess! It is unfair to everyone else!"

"No-one else in this school will ever care about Tibet. Now, go away, I'm busy." He waved one hand at her, a clear motion of dismissal.

"I'm not a cleaner, I shouldn't have to solve this mess! In fact, neither should the cleaners, they aren't paid to come here because of a few careless individuals. The right to use this building will be revoked, should you prove that you cannot cope with the responsibility!"

A short, thin woman of around sixty stormed towards him, her hair scraped into a bun and round glasses upon her equally round face.

She did not look quite as stern as she sounded, and John felt a little sorry for her.

He placed the copies next to an irritated Sherlock, and went to help the woman.

What she seemed to have deemed to be a major catastrophe was only about six or seven books that had fallen from the top shelf, and John quickly put them away in the correct place, then went back to join Sherlock.

The librarian was apparently unused to people _actually _helping, and profusely thanked the teenager, who had come to the conclusion that she was originally so fussed because she herself was actually unable to reach that particular shelf without the aid of a stepladder.

Now content, she left the two alone, and went to the opposite end of the library to, no doubt, hassle someone else.

John sat opposite Sherlock, and quickly reached for the two books that were neglected on the middle of the table.

They were both novels, with only one thing in common.

They were written in a foreign language. Tibetan, if the stickers on the spines of the books were to be believed. It also told me that they were fiction.

"Why do we have these? Sherlock? I mean, yes, they're in Tibetan, but why would we need horror novels?"

"We don't. Those two are for secondary reference. In case some of the words are slightly different to what's in the dictionary." Which, John presumed, was the large, hefty book resting in Sherlock's left hand.

Sherlock had all of the pictures in front of him, but handed over the original, along with a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Translate all of the Greek. Now."

"I think please is the word you are looking for." John's words had no effect on Sherlock, especially since he had started translating as he spoke.

"Yes, yes, just work it out."

Sherlock himself was scribbling furiously, and also causing a cooling draft with the dictionary. It ceased suddenly a mere two or three minutes later, whilst John was still on the third of the four sets of words.

"Have you done it?"

"Yea-uh- give me a second. A lot of these words I don't normally use, you know."

He finished the translations, and slid them across the table to Sherlock. Who looked at the paper and frowned.

"You don't usually use words like 'the' or 'one'?"

John raised his eyebrows. "I thinking more along the lines of the 'death', 'melancholy' and 'boredom'."

"Funny, I use them all the time."

"You would. Why am I not surprised?"

"Because nothing in that is surprising. Obvious."

Sherlock grabbed another piece of paper, and scrawled across it, combining what they had both worked out.

The Greek first. He started drawing lines around it, but John was wondering why he started with the Greek.

"Why are you doing it like that? That line was on the very inside bit!"

"Exactly, John. The woman is the centre-point. That means we need to work our way _out._"

Sherlock wrote it all out, lifted the paper, then shook it, reading it over once before lifting his eyes to John's.

He looked suddenly apologetic, though what for, John had yet to find out.

_People who have noticed. My two new best friends, I hope. One hates to get bored, one might even be driven to suicide to break out of melancholy moods. Death is much preferable to a gradual dulling of the brain. _

_Now. All of your clues are in the picture, and pay close attention to those supposed relatives of yours, the both of you. As you can see, I can get a hold of anything. _

_Also, you should both take better care of yourselves. There is one injury you both have in common with this lovely woman. Everyone is more alike than they would hope. Except for me. _

_I look forward to having two new players in my little game, all of my past participants are currently six foot under. _

_It is a shame, I really need to be more careful. Perhaps fill in the hole in my back garden._

_Bye for now ~ _

John stared at Sherlock, eyes wide, only to snatch the paper from Sherlock's hands, an action only permitted because Sherlock was already deep in thought.

John read it twice, the second time comparing the words with the picture.

Of course, he could match everything up in accordance to himself, but had to guess when it came to Sherlock, he still knew little about him.

Working with his own minimal deducting abilities, John made a list comprising of the few things he could observe or guess at with the murderers comments.

**Relatives- Our fathers. The army badge and the Ox ring. **

John skipped the injury one; if Sherlock thought it necessary, he could mention it first.

**Suicide, death, averting boredom. This guy must be an absolute nutcase, and he plans to kill us. Also, suicide? You can't physically make someone commit suicide. It's crazy. Illogical. I don't know. **

**Places: England, Greece, Tibet. **

**Greece already off the list. Maybe he's trying to lead us to Tibet. **

John then put the paper down, thoroughly irritated with the lack of information. He was surprisingly calm. It was a bit too surrealistic for him to actually be frightened.

And threats had never been something to really get to him, anyway. In fact, the young Watson had at one point welcomed nasty comments and threats, he had found that responding to them gave him an outlet, drained him emotionally. It made him feel more in control the rest of the time.

Well, he used to. After a particularly bad exchange, he had decided writing to be a far better outlet, but he still seemed to have the lock-down responses.

The little voice in his brain that said: 'There is no fear. Fear is useless, a weakness, and therefore cannot exist.'

That was what his father had once called the 'soldier mentality', the one time John had voiced this aloud.

This seemed to be the same for Sherlock, though his face was not purposefully blank.

He looked excited. To him, there was no problem in showing it. It was just a challenge, and Sherlock was not concerned for his father, which confirmed all that John had already suspected about Sherlock Holmes' family.

When John looked back at the paper, Sherlock had added to other countries to the rather short locations list. Russia and Germany.

"Russia?"

"Yes. Kaliningrad, to be exact. You didn't ask about Germany, so Russia should be simple."

"How? Germany, yeah. Kathe Kollwitz was German. Russia? That I know nothing about."

"She was born in Kaliningrad. Died in Moritzburg, Germany. That means those two places are two of out locations, and these two are linked."

He grabbed a large piece of yellow paper from behind a printer, and wrote all of the countries in spaces, England directly in the centre.

He proceeded to draw an arrow from England to each of the others, and another extra one from England to Greece, this one a lot bolder than the others.

He finished with a two way arrow from Russia to Germany. He added a question mark to both ends of the arrow.

"This is everything we have." He dropped the marker, and tented his fingers together, leaning forward slightly to touch them to his lip.

"Not much to go on."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. Look at this compared to what we started with. We know all of the locations, we also know that profile of our little 'opponent'. He has access to things that are in this school.

He has been here at least twice, and must have surveyed us near constantly since we both got into Mycroft's taxi that first day."

"Yes, we know he's a creep. But Sherlock, we're missing something."

"Really? What?"

"Why is he doing this? How did he even pick us? It's unlikely we have _any_ mutual friends, so to speak. How would anyone find the both of us? It's a little strange, don't you think?"

"Strange? No, it's brilliant! And anyway, I know exactly how he found us."

"Really? Care to share this? I mean, It's not obvious to me."

"I'm going to assume that you-like almost every other young person-have facebook, twitter or myspace. Or something similar."

"No, but I do have a blog."

"Me too. Well, website. He must have read it, then started surveillance of some kind."

"Oh, I found that. The science of Deduction. I would have thought it a little unlikely, had I not already seen you do it first hand."

"Really? What did you think?"

"It was amazing, really. Quite extraordinary."

"Honestly? You think?" Sherlock had never looked so shocked.

"Of course. Rather extraordinary."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not what people usually say."

John furrowed his brow in an almost identical expression. "What do they normally say?"

"Piss off." Sherlock smiled quickly in reassurance, and John smiled too, almost laughing.

This was the first thing Sherlock had ever recognised of friendship.

A/N- Reviews are most welcomed! Seriously, never done anything of this sort of style before, and I'm a little disheartened by the lack of response. L Though I do thank everyone who has story alerted (it at least shows people want to read it J) . Thanks to everyone who had reviewed, as well. I am most grateful. J 3


	7. Scars and Ointment

Chapter seven- Scars

A/N- Mild warning, I guess. Self-mutilation/harm, whatever wording you want to use. It is a serious problem, one that may as well be addressed since I've already started on my portrayal of the homophobes.

On a brighter note, This chapter does have the teensiest bit of fluff, so it's not all bad. J

*_* Start of chapter *_*

They were still smiling as the bell went for dinner. Sherlock disappeared rather suddenly, taking all the evidence and their writings with him.

He muttered something about 'don't eat till Sunday', but John chose not to question it, heading to dinner by himself instead. He most likely would not have gotten an answer, anyway.

*_*_*_*_ *_*_*_*_*_*_

For the next few days, Sherlock carried an ominous looking black folder around with him everywhere, but informed John that serial killers were difficult, and they could do nothing until he contacted them again. Carrying the folder was a 'just in case'. John knew it was really to keep Sherlock entertained in class, but did not comment.

John did not want to wait, it meant that someone else could die, and so wanted to attempt to contact the mysterious person. Sherlock shot him down, saying that would not be a part of the game. This other player was the offensive one, he needed to make all of the attacks. They needed him to want to get to them before they could actually attack.

John just nodded along, and attempted to go about as normal.

He couldn't resist leaving a little message, though. Just in case the person was still watching them. Or their websites, anyway.

He left a note on his English table - a room that Sherlock had no lessons in.

_Check my blog. I have a few little questions. _

_~JW_

He then made a few posts as an anonymous person on his own blog- again in case Sherlock was keeping an eye on him. If Sherlock interfered, they would be unlikely to get any answers.

In lessons, John still talked to almost no-one, and was more than happy with that. Tuesday, however, came with a nasty surprise.

P.E. Physical Education. As it was compulsory for everyone, he had no choice but to go. The only reason he had been getting away with missing all of the lessons were his T.L.C appointments, which John conveniently had scheduled over a non-'core' subject, which John had been allowed to pick. (T.L.C- Teenage life centre.)

Like almost every other vaguely good academic adolescent in existence, he picked PE. That tended to be the way. Poor academics tended to miss either English or maths. It didn't take a genius to figure out.

He had never voluntarily gone to make an appointment, but since the situation in which he had left his old school had been 'traumatic', the school had automatically signed him up for hour long sessions with a psychologist called Anthea.

She was nice enough, but had an obsession with trying to make John befriend another 'shy individual'. He always read her comments, though there was little point, as they were always the same, polite, predictable notes that basically called him anti-social, with no desire whatsoever to conform. He always read them though, it made him feel like he had some small degree of control.

He was quite happy that these little sessions had come to an end, but dreaded the thought of P.E.

It wasn't the actual exercise, that he was more than fine with, it was the idea of donning a football kit and working with other people. Not a nice combination, and he had worked himself up enough to be nearly hyperventilating as he headed to the changing rooms ten minutes before the lesson was scheduled to begin.

He wanted to get changed before anyone else arrived.

And he was right. Almost everyone was still at dinner, and the changing rooms were amazingly empty. Not even an exercise addict in sight.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief, found his locker, and used the little silver key for the first time. Luckily, it worked. One problem out of the way. Only another two or three to go.

The clothing, placed in every locker, numbered in accordance to said locker, washed every week. He still hadn't the slightest clue what it even looked like.

A high collar and a jumper was a must.

Some sort of god must have been of his side, as for football, all boys were required to wear a long sleeved, high collard black and yellow shirt and black shorts, and jumpers were permitted in the winter months.

He changed as quickly as humanly possible, still worried that someone else would enter the room.

Once done, he realised that he had left his football boots in his room.

It was the only item of sports gear that they bought and looked after themselves, and John's were still in his suitcase. They were also still in the box. And John _thought _they were black and silver, but couldn't be sure.

He walked to his room - he was early, so there was no hurry- and collected the shoes. They were actually black, yellow and silver, but John wasn't particularly fussed about it .

He grabbed the shoes and went back up to the changing rooms. When he got there, most of the other boys had arrived, and Sherlock was in the middle of an argument with a middle aged, average sized man. He had a mop of white hair, and was holding a clipboard as if it were precious.

John quickly pulled his boots on, and locked his school shoes away in the space provided, dropping his keys into his jumper pocket.

"Sherlock. Holmes. You are to follow school rules and regulations like everyone else, understood? Now get changed!"

"No. I wont." Stubborn pout in place, Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest.

"You will, and you will do it now! You cannot miss another lesson.!"

Apparently, this was now a fairly old argument.

"I can't." The stubbornness was still there, but Sherlock's voice now also held a hint of fear, and desperation, too.

John figured that he knew why, but dismissed the idea; that would not be a cause for Sherlock's disagreement with the uniform policy.

"You can and you will. Shirt and shorts, Sherlock. Tracksuit trousers are not allowed, you know that."

The teacher looked slightly sympathetic, and though John did not know why, it made him warm slightly to the man.

He stood back to address the class.

"Alright. Everyone, go and start the drills we did last time. Holmes, Watson, stay here."

The others left, most of them giving either or both of them nasty looks. John ignored them, focused entirely on Sherlock.

Sherlock, who seemed to absorbing everything, growing steadily more slouched, more depressed.

"Alright, you two ship the drill, this time. I'll have you each put on a team when you get out there. Sherlock, you do have to get changed. It's not my rules, it's the schools. When you are both ready, come to the main field and so a lap. I don't want either of you injured because of a lack of a warm-up. Okay?"

He stood back a little as they both nodded an agreement. It wasn't even close to enthusiastic, but he took it.

He gave one more sympathetic look, then proved that not all P.E teachers are mentally lacking.

"Watson, make sure Sherlock gets sorted. Oh, and black wristbands are in that box. The white is showing from under your sleeve.

There's a green med-kit in the disabled toilet. Don't take too long, boys."

He was off before either of them could respond.

John went over to the box of wristbands, looking for discreet ones that fit; he was giving Sherlock the chance to get changed in peace.

Until, that is, he heard a hiss of pain.

He whirled around to find Sherlock, comfortably in his shirt, standing there in black boxers with green dinosaurs on them. The dinosaurs said RAWR and it would have been funny had John not already caught sight of Sherlock's thigh.

Or what was left of it, anyway.

Written, carved, over and over again was that one word Sherlock had heard far too many times.

Freak.

Even his mutilation was ordered, obsessive. Neat lines over and over again, the deepest ones directly in the middle of every line, standing out. Like a wave. These ones were desperate, but controlled.

His other leg was not. There the adjective (?) was only marked once, but large, in messy cuts like a toddlers handwriting, and it was deep. John could picture Sherlock all too well, grabbing an object through bleary eyes, wrapping a fist around it like a lifeline, like a baby does to one of its parents fingers. But then he would plunge it into his leg, hard as possible, dragging it down, an illogical attempt just to cover the _hurt._

And it was deep. So much so that the 'F' and the 'K' had both split open as he had removed his trousers, and the blood was currently rapidly running down his leg.

John had never wanted to cry so much in his life.

In fact, he did. But he did not notice, concentrated on finding that medical kit, and wondering how many times Sherlock had to fix a him that someone else had broke. Wondering how many times Sherlock had tried to break himself, just to feel like he had control. That he chose what to feel.

Mind running by itself, John cleaned up Sherlock's leg, tightly bandaging it. The wound could not have stitches; the cuts were quite old, and they would now do little to aid the healing process.

He then bound the other one, so the others would not be able to see the scars, the reminders.

He saw Sherlock, sat on the ground, curled into a ball, trying to suppress the emotions, trying to cover them. It broke his heart.

Before he realised what was happening, he had wrapped his arms around Sherlock carefully, a warm embrace, the only comfort that John could think of.

He was astonished when he felt two long gangly arms reciprocate the gesture. It made the tears fall faster down his face, and he didn't notice until he pulled away that Sherlock was silently weeping too.

Far more controlled. Everything Sherlock did was controlled. It made John wonder if Sherlock had ever been happy. It saddened him greatly, but he assumed the answer was no.

"Why do you help me? Why do you cry? Nobody's ever done either for me before." Sherlock's voice was so small, vulnerable. It made the picture of Sherlock curled up flash momentarily into John's mind. It was terrible, disastrous.

And he wanted to fix it. Fix the Sherlock that the world had broken.

"Because.. Because." John stuttered, afraid of scaring Sherlock away, and also scared of another hit to his already microscopic self-esteem. But he knew Sherlock needed this. So he gathered all his confidence and continued.

"Because I care about you. I hate the thought of them hurting you, but I hate the thought of you having to hurt yourself even more. I know what that feels like, and I don't want you to need to force it upon yourself. I want- I want.. To find a way to make you happy."

He blushed slightly, looking at the floor, shuffling his feet against the ground. He saw a blur of black clothing before he felt a hand on one shoulder, the other on his waist. Sherlock lowered his head, pressing their foreheads together lightly.

"Thank you. I mean that. I-uh, like you. A lot. So-if this, will uh.. Help me, it might uh. also." (ohmigosh the great Sherlock Holmes stuttering!)

"I know, Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not even going to ask how you found out about that, but it's okay."

He was, of course, referring to the fact that Sherlock's hand on his shoulder was quite deliberate, his thumb rubbing circles along the edge of the bandage.

He decided it was okay for Sherlock to know, he didn't mind at all. Though Sherlock obviously did. The talk of self-harm made him awkward. To John, it was just another level of understanding.

Role reversal. It was normally Sherlock that was okay with everything. But only if everyone knew nothing. Now John knew a little more than something, Sherlock felt weak. Exposed.

And a little, relieved. Less alone.

John could see Sherlock having a mental discussion, as close as they were.

But he couldn't concentrate on that, he was drowning in twin pools of stormy green before he had even finished his thought.

The rest wasn't even close to actually thinking, as he seemed to lose to capacity to rationally consider everything. It was no wonder Sherlock thought everyone stupid. If he had this damn effect on everyone.

John pulled back slightly, but wrapped both of his arms loosely around Sherlock's back. He then leaned back to him , at a different angle, allowing their lips to touch together softly.

Sherlock jumped slightly, but recovered before John could take it the wrong way.

He reciprocated it, moving the hand from John's waist to the side of his face, a light caress.

Feather light, it was more a touch than a kiss, but made them both feel warmer. And when John stepped back, he was rewarded with the first honestly happy smile he had ever seen.

*_*End of Chapter *_*

A/N- Break from plot. Only momentary, next chapter will be back to it. I tried to keep them in character, and I hope I didn't fail too epically.

Soundtrack- Whilst I was writing this, I had two songs close in mind. I love both of them, so recommended: Scars (Acoustic)- Papa Roach

Long Sleeves - Black Stone Cherry.

Also, as I fail at relationships, writing their first kiss was surprisingly difficult. Though I don't honestly think any couples is that cute, I hope it sufficed. It cheered me up a little.


	8. Car Compactor

Chapter Eight- Car Compactor

They headed to the pitch; it was decided that doing so was easier than not; then people would be sent to get them.

Their hands stayed joined until they left the empty changing block; they seemed to have mutually come to the conclusion that it was best _not _to attract attention.

Following this idea, they both ran a lap when they got there, even though the others had already started the game.

Had being an operative word. About half way around the pitch, most of them had stopped playing and were literally just staring.

Apparently, they thought both of the newbies were incredibly fast, though they were deliberately keeping pace with each other, and were running a lot slower than usual, so as not to put too much strain on Sherlock's leg. John had it wrapped exceptionally thick and tight, but was worried Sherlock would over do it.

Both being incredibly fast, the students that didn't already know them offered to take them onto their team.

A boy from the aforementioned team shuffled over to the other one; he had biology lessons with Sherlock. 'nough said.

This made the teams even. They thought it best to put John and Sherlock both in defence as they had never seen either or them play before.

Their teams attack was brilliant, so they had very little to do in the first 10 minutes.

They ended up standing right next to each other to talk, heads close together to make sure no-one heard, but people were concentrating on playing, and actually didn't comment.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." No he hadn't. It just sounded better than launching straight into their conversation. "Our new friend left responses on your blog."

"What? How would you even know about that?" Then, as an afterthought, "Plural?"

"Don't be stupid, of course I knew. Anyway, he just responded. Twice."

"If it was just now, you wouldn't be able to tell me that." John shook his head a little at Sherlock, then pretended to be watching the ball, which was still on the other side of the pitch.

"Yes I would." The emphasis on the I made him sound a little like a toddler who thinks their mother doubts their skills. He rolled up his sleeve as proof, where he had planted his phone before they had left.

"Text alert if anyone responds to those particular comments on your page."

"You can do that?"

"It's your blog site, John. You should really know that."

"Can we read it on your phone?"

"Yes, but right now I would strongly advise running to get the ball, John."

John followed Sherlock's line of sight, to find that the other team's striker (it is a striker, right? I know shit all about sport) was running straight at them.

John sprinted over to them, tackling and whacking the ball right over to the other side of the pitch. Then he returned to Sherlock, who nodded approvingly.

It went on like this for the rest of the game. They talked, a little on the case, but mostly on other aspects of school and each other, stopping only when the ball crossed to their side, one of them running to get it back to their forward players.

This system worked very well, the opposition never getting the opportunity to try and score. By the end, the yellow team (John and Sherlock's, as indicated by the disgusting luminous yellow bibs they were all wearing over their kit) was cheering and complimenting the two of them. The others just glared and made their usual stupid, 'oh-so-original' comments, and no-one stopped them.

But that was to be expected.

They got changed in silence, each next to their own locker, like any other vaguely self-conscious boy would.

Sherlock was finished before John, but waited on a bench outside the changing block until he was ready.

"Come on, then." Sherlock had jumped up the second he saw John exit the room, walking towards his room.

"Huh? Um, _why_ should I follow you?" Mostly teasing, John caught up with the lanky brunette with very little effort.

"So we can look at whatever he sent you."

"Why are you positive it's even a guy?"

"Because I can think." John snorted. "Helpful. It could just be a girl, y'know, women's libber style thinking against us."

Sherlock laughed. "You actually thought about it, but came to the wrong conclusion. That could have been the case, but the first victim was a woman. If she was trying to get against us because we're men, her first victim would have been male, to prove a point. Not saying women's libbers feel like they have to murder men, but this person is very easily able to kill. It would be logical to kill a man. So no. The killer is male."

"Guess so."

"Guess right." He crinkled a smile, turning to open the block door. They walked along to room 221, where they stopped only for Sherlock to curse foully.

"What's wrong?"

"The door key is locked in my locker. I guess I may have rushed a _little_ getting changed. I can't be bothered to walk all the way back now. Lets go to yours." Sherlock starting walking to room 204, only to pause when he heard the click of the lock.

"Of course. You still have the key Mycroft gave you."

"Yup." They both entered the room, which was miraculously free of experiments. In that space, there was now a massive carpet of paper, making as many links of everything they already knew, things that were likely, things that weren't, and post-it's of similar cases in the last ten years.

There was also a pink post-it stuck onto each corner of the ceiling.

"Decorations?" John pointed.

"Um, no. Blocking out the cameras, actually." He turned and walked into the area next to the waste paper bin and waved. "I left one. He has a lovely view of my rubbish, but no sound."

John giggled at the thought of a criminal mastermind watching a rubbish bin all day. That would be so amazing to watch.

Then he actually saw one of the post-its. It had black permanent marker and a line of orange that clashed with the pink.

"Leaving our friend some notes?"

"Yeah. If you read them all in the order he would see them on a screen, it says ' Sorry darling, you're not seeing what I haven't got *winky face* love from Sherlock.*love heart*'."

John laughed outright, the flat, tone of his voice held only a hint of laughter at his own antics.

They headed over to Sherlock's surprisingly tidy bed, which John had learnt was the only vaguely safe seat in the room, and picked up the laptop that was resting on Sherlock's pillow. John logged onto his blog, then realised two completely separate things.

"Sherlock, if you keep a laptop on your pillow, how the hell do you sleep? _Do_ you ever sleep?"

"Of course, I was asleep the day you bought the message."

"Since then?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. I average around seven hours a week, depending on what I'm doing. I have been known to sleep eighteen hours straight before, but that only happens on boxing day, when all the relatives are around and drunk."

"Great. You even have the ability to control your sleep patterns. Can you fly?"

"No , John. And I think tights and a red cape would look dreadful on me."

"Your black coat is close enough. Hey Sherlock," Sherlock nodded for him to continue, resting his head on John's shoulder and clicking through the links that were left as a comment.

"Yep?"

"Will I have to search my room for those cameras?"

There was something quite sweet about that, and Sherlock didn't know why, but he had a strange urge to kiss him on the cheek. He did so, noting that it actually gave him a slight feeling of accomplishment.

"No, John. I took care of that ages ago. But the post-it's weren't as bright, I didn't think you'd want Anderson whinging about pink."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"No problem." He shifted slightly, his free arm resting around John; it was far easier to get to the laptop that way. He clicked a few more times, then let go of the laptop. He moved back a little, giving John a little more space. John followed without thinking, so Sherlock stopped moving. It made him feel warmer, and he discovered that he quite liked it.

That was a first. People had hugged him in the past, sat with him. He had found it annoying then.

"There we go." Having got through the complicated defence, a picture loaded.

There was actually a series of pictures. Put together, it was easy to get a clear picture of what had happened.

It was in Germany. A car compactor had been stopped half way through work, and the results that came out were not entirely expected.

There was, rather clearly, a body, blood everywhere, face unrecognisable, in the drivers seat of the car.

Which, looking closer, was actually a black taxi cab.

With the number plate still in tact.

"Shit. Sherlock looked a little shaken, uncharacteristically so.

"What is it? Sherlock?"

"That's Mycroft's licence plate number."

A/N- A little bit more to the story!

Righteyho, since I got such a fantastic response to my first M rated fic, (It really was lovely! I opened my email and it wasn't websites trying to make me spend money.) I figure, what does everyone want? Lemon or not?

Also, let's play a game of sorts. The first two chapters, they are from a book written by one of the characters for a specific purpose. As are some of the others. Try and guess which two people have written chapters of this, which chapters, and why!

R&R. Reviews are love!


	9. We All Need Reassurance Sometimes

Chapter Nine- We all need reassurance sometimes

A/N- Small note- you may have noticed the change in rating. There will most likely be M rated comment in later chapters, if I haven't bordered on it already. Not for a few chapters though. 

John stared at Sherlock, shocked. He knew there was no good way to ask.

"Is that-?"

"No. He's just showing off." Sherlock sounded rather annoyed, impatient too, but not even a little bit concerned.

"How are you so sure, Sherlock? You cannot possibly know that. It's your brother. Aren't you even the slightest bit anxious? Apprehensive?"

"You can keep finding words, John ,but I'm not stupid. And no. I've never worried about anyone in my life. But in this particular case, I have an excuse."

"Oh yeah? What's that then?" John demanded, but the response did not come from Sherlock Holmes.

"Look behind you, Mister Watson." (A/N- Yes, I spelt Mister like this. Felt more relevant.)

Mycroft's voice joined the conversation. Sherlock observed that John did not jump, but his muscles tensed minutely, not noticeable if he hadn't been pressed against him.

John twisted his head slightly to see past Sherlock to the door.

"Oh, Hello Mr- I mean, Mycroft."

It was confounding to John, taking to the serious teacher, but also talking to the peculiar man who was Sherlock's older sibling.

He strongly doubted that he would ever get used to it; whenever he started thinking that both Mycroft's were the same, he would suddenly see something similar in him to Sherlock.

It was actually bordering on disturbing.

"Hello. What have you got yourself into now, Shirley?"

Sherlock merely grumbled in response, wrapping his arm tightly around John. This did not go unnoticed, by Sherlock started talking before Mycroft could question it.

"Out of curiosity, Mycroft, is that actually your taxi, or is it just a copy?"

"Why would that even matter?" John frowned at Sherlock, who was glaring at his brother.

"Because that would tell us the scale we're working against. Did he just pay that one person to leave us that note, or is there always people stealing for him? Is he there for the murders, or just behind the scene?"

"Nope, that's not my taxi." Mycroft confirmed, cleft forming between his eyebrows. _What had Sherlock gotten himself into now?_

"He hasn't added anymore camera's so he is most probably done here; gathering information anyway. He has enough for his plan. He's left the country. Mycroft. You need to get me and John to Tibet."

"What? Why ?" John sounded alarmed, and Sherlock instinctively brushed his hand along the length of his side. He filled with warmth as John relaxed again, comforted by the simple gesture.

"Because, that's where the last murder will be."

"What about Kaliningrad?"

"Already dead. Exact same time as Germany, I'd say. This guy would just _love_ to use the two places at once thing. Just to rub it in my face."

"Are you positive? 'Cause it doesn't normally matter if you guess, but you want us to leave the _country_."

[Notice everyone how Sherlock immediately decided that John was coming with him. _Displays signs of unwanted co-dependency. Easily trusting him, despite the fact that neither of them even try to make friends._ _Already so reliant on him that he doesn't question the small matter of whether he wanted to go, or whether he should._]

"Easily solved, John." Sherlock once again reached for the computer, feeling a slight loss as he had to let go of John; they were still just as close as before, but holding onto him had somehow made it easier for Sherlock to slow down and think properly.

He went onto good old Google, even though John had gotten BING up. Then typed in 'Kaliningrad'. That was all it took. Already a long list of possible searches turned up, for four that afternoon. Immediate breaking news, a murder at a concert hall.

They clicked on the first newspaper page; idiots adlibbing was the last thing they needed.

_As the final, climatic note of the afternoons performance rang out, the crowd within the 'Church of the Holy Family' heard a deafening screech of the organ as a body was dropped upon it. Said organ is a prized piece of the hall, though the concert in question was a solo violinist. _

_The victim was __Александр (Alexander), the civil partner of the soloist Владимир (Vladimir) who upon hearing the noise, immediately ceased to play, running to instrument. _

_Александр had multiple wounds, including a severed finger, cut off on his left hand; it is currently being treated as a homophobic attack._

_Владимир refused to interview, shouting to inform that his 'love was gone, and it was the fault of this world' before promptly returning to tears. _[ Picture alongside this, Vladimir holding the body of Alexander, tears streaming down his face.]

For the first time since he could fluently read, Sherlock did not finish the article. Instead he buried his face into John's shoulder, his arms wrapping around him much like before, but tighter, like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go.

John finished reading, then handed the laptop to Mycroft, before turning in Sherlock's arms to embrace him back.

Mycroft read the whole thing in under two minutes, then looked at his brother, distraught and clinging to John like a teddy bear.

"I'll book tickets." He left silently, shutting Sherlock's door quietly behind him.

Sherlock and John stayed in that same position for over an hour, before John noticed the time.

He carefully extracted himself from Sherlock, who stubbornly tried to cling to him.

"I'd better go, Sherlock." He made to move off of the bed, but Sherlock looped long fingers around his wrist, leaning forward, eyes panicked.

"Stay."

John immediately understood, climbing back next to Sherlock, who wrapped his arms back around him before throwing his weight back, tipping them both to lie down.

John obliged, kissed Sherlock's forehead softly, and the both started to fall into a drama-induced sleep.

A/N- Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, but especially to Zarra Rous, the only person to have reviewed past chapter four. That review got a little of my writing Mojo back. Also thanks to subscribers/favourites, its been keeping my email inbox cheery! J

R&R- Reviews are like the goalpost after a couple of hours of writing J


	10. Off To Tibet

Chapter 10- Off To Tibet.

Disclaimer- I own nothing, 'cause I'm really a part of the Homeless Network ;)

Sherlock awoke slowly, feeling warm, well-rested and altogether very comfortable.

Then he realised there was a slight pressure on the top of his head, and on his shoulders.

John.

Sherlock smiled slightly, and snuggled closer, nuzzling his head under the other boys chin, his arms tightening around his waist.

"You're awake then." John sounded happy, but slightly nervous. Understandable, considering they had awoken locked in a comfortingly tight embrace.

"Mornin' John." Sherlock mumbled into his shoulder, not yet willing to move.

"Morning. You alright?" John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, almost absently, the way one would do had they been with someone for years.

It was amazing how easily they fit into such a comfortable relationship.

Astonishing that Sherlock lightly brushed his lips across John's shoulder in response. The so-called sociopath, secret snuggler.

John smiled lightly, not even close to get ready to move. It was just too relaxing. The comparison with normally waking up was ridiculous, and John decided that this was why people normally liked waking up together.

Both boys were prepared to spend the whole day there, until something interesting happened, but a sharp rap on the door spoiled those unspoken plans.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you in there?"

"No. Go away, Lestrade." It was highly childish, but Sherlock didn't really care. He figured Mycroft was around somewhere, and that lowered his maturity level dramatically.

"Mycroft said we need to leave in an hour, so I need to get you and John up. But he's not in his room."

"Oh really? Never would have guessed." Sherlock still hadn't moved, and he could feel John trying not to laugh.

"Huh? Sherlock-" Lestrade cut of abruptly, interrupted.

"Sherlock, we know he's there. I am not stupid, you know. Open up."

"Do it yourself, Mycroft."

And he did. The door swung open, then Mycroft added a dry "Make sure you're decent."

Neither Mycroft nor his lover seemed even close to surprised that John was there, though Mycroft frowned at the position they were in, despite the fact that they were both fully dressed.

He had thought that Sherlock would behave a little more indifferent towards John with Greg being in the room.

And he wasn't used to being wrong.

John noticed the expression, and subtly tried to prise Sherlock off of him, but Sherlock was having none of it. And John's attempt was less than half-hearted, it was only induced by the slight embarrassment of having the two teachers see. And there was little point in moving when they were already there.

The elder Holmes cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, this is important. Listen up."

"Tell John to listen." He got nudged by the aforementioned John. "I already am."

Sherlock sighed, then moved his head a little to face Lestrade. He was childishly deliberately avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

"Listening. Happy?"

"Very. Mycroft answered pleasantly, the way one would if they were sat around a table drinking tea, not standing in the middle of a room, with one couple still in bed.

"Now, in an hour, Greg and John are going to the airport, stopping on the way at John's dentist. If these people are watching then they will probably stop if they think it is a simple appointment."

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft took that to be 'acceptable explanation', in Sherlock-ese.

"You and I will take a rented car seventeen minutes later, and take the long route around to the airport. We are all to meet in my classroom in fifty-five minutes time."

"Okay." John agreed easily. Sherlock also knew it was a good idea, and Mycroft was being exceptionally helpful, but offered a "Fine" in his sulky, 'talking-to-Mycroft' tone of voice.

"Oh, and Shirley? You're going to need to wear walking boots."

Sherlock glared, and the two older males swiftly exited the room.

"Why?"

"I need to walk through the fields at the back to get to the car."

"Right." John didn't bother to ask how he knew that, but made to get out of bed, stopping when Sherlock reached out to grab his wrist.

"Where are you going?" A cleft appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned at John.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you were clever. How long will we be there?"

"One week at the most. I would think less, but we need to remain hidden whilst he has the advantage. You didn't answer my question."

"To pack, Sherlock. And have a shower, get changed. You know, the normal things you do before a trip."

Sherlock grumbled, then sat up, immediately shivering slightly. "It's cold now." He muttered, and John smiled.

Leaning down, he softly kissed Sherlock, then ran a hand gently down his hair.

"I'll see you in fifty-something minutes."

"Forty-nine, John." Sherlock smirked back at him, then stood up, taking the duvet with him.

John frowned, but didn't bother questioning it. Instead, he watched Sherlock bundle off into his bathroom, duvet and all, only leaving once Sherlock was out of sight.

-o0o0o0o-

John opened the door to his room, only to find it in a rather peculiar state.

It was totally and completely devoid of people, but it was obvious from the floor that the people couldn't have gone far.

Unless Anderson had a habit of wearing red, lacy, bras and thongs, there had been a girl in the room.

And John thought it would be fairly stupid for someone to leave without their underwear. And that black scrap that could _just_ be described as a dress. Only very loosely though, and if it belonged to one of the borrowers.

Anderson's clothes were also on the floor, and whilst processing this, poor John heard noises from the bathroom.

He shuddered at the thought of what he would have seen if he had left Sherlock's earlier, then started chucking things into a small hold-all as quickly as humanly possible.

He was packed in under five minutes, nearly sprinting from the room.

He would be haunted by the rhythmic thump on the wall, and the loud moans of 'Oh Fuck' for years.

He honestly wasn't sure what was the most disturbing. The knowledge that he was a teenage boy and a girl moaning was of no interest to him, or the fact that he recognised the voice to be that of Sally Donovan.

He reached Sherlock's room amazingly quickly, and knocked on the door, slightly out of breath, though it had been more of a walk than a run.

"Come in." Sherlock sounded annoyed, but broke into a smile when he noticed it was John. "That was fast."

"Hmm. Yeah, Guess so. Can I borrow your shower?"

"Yes, of course. What was wrong with yours." Sherlock asked, but was already smirking.

"Occupied by both Anderson and Donovan. Enough said."

"No wonder you look ill." The Holmes boy commented idly, using a ruler to measure his bag.

John certainly thought he wouldn't be _that_ anal retentive about packing. From the mess everywhere he had seemed much more like a 'chuck it all in' type.

"Thanks." John grabbed his towel and wash-bag from the front pocket of his back, thanking God that neither him nor Anderson kept them in the bathroom, but in the cupboards provided above their beds. Otherwise he would definitely be in a bit of a pickle.

He showered quickly, then realised that he had forgotten his clothes.

With a sigh, he wrapped the towel around his waist tightly. It really wasn't his day.

Sherlock looked up from his bag as the bathroom door creaked open, trying to suppress the smirk that was itching back in place.

Not that it was difficult, the second John emerged, any notion of smirking was long forgotten.

Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, John held his shoulders hunched, self-conscious, as he headed straight for his bag.

Sherlock thought it was adorable. And yes, more than a little attractive.

Elegantly unfolding himself from the floor, he loped across the room to John, who was sorting through the utter mess that was his bag.

He wrapped both of his arms around the other boy, though he wasn't sure what he wanted or why.

John jumped a little, startled, then relaxed. Sherlock realised that this was the reaction he had sought out.

He swayed a little, John moving with him, and kissed the back of his neck. This was easy, relationships in the physical sense were not alien to Sherlock Holmes, merely any sort of innocent reasoning behind it. Or the lack of thought he was currently using to make these choices. It was confusing that he actually wanted to, rather than just needed information from a ditzy girl.

He rested he head over his friend's shoulder, content until an angry red line came into his line of sight.

Concerned, John was spun around so Sherlock could get a better look at the thick, rough scar that ran along the right side of John's collarbone. It was over halfway healed, but anyone could have guessed that the original wound was deep, and slit open more than once. Deliberately.

The taller boy looked at John in shock, moving one hand up to ghost over the scar.

John stood there awkwardly; he had assumed that Sherlock had already deduced this about him. He had figured it out for Sherlock the day the picture arrived.

"I thought you'd have gone for the wrist." Sherlock murmured, almost as if he'd read John's thoughts.

"Why?" To John, that had always seemed like a stupid place to hurt, yes effective in suicide, but only attracting attention when your aim is just to _stop_.

"The most commonly known. Also used in the photo, and I knew that didn't apply to me. Also, John, in case you've forgotten you have a bandage on your left wrist normally." He frowned. "It isn't here now."

"No. I used to claw at my arms; a nervous habit. Putting a bandage on was easier than constantly cutting my nails, and even short, I somehow managed to break the skin. I don't like people seeing the scars there. They might comment. If I wanted attention, I would mark my arms. But it seems pointless, the effect would obviously be negative. I don't want people talking about me."

Sherlock nodded in approval at the very 'Holmes' style explanation. His eyes were completely fixed on the angry mark, peculiar expression across his face.

"You're so much more logical than the ordinary people.

Or so much more practised. But Sherlock wasn't going to mention that, he didn't want to irritate John.

"Umm, Thanks?"

Holmes didn't respond, instead leaning forward to gently press his lips to the scar. It was a sweet gesture, particularly when he gave an approving nod. "All better."

"All better." John repeated, a small smile on his face, though he looked a little shaky.

And, Sherlock finally noticed that the poor boy was shivering at least partially from the cold.

He kissed him quickly, then pulled back. "Go get dressed, we definitely need to sort out your bag before we leave."

"M'kay." It was more of a noise than a word, and John retreated back to the bathroom, clothes in hand.

Sherlock packed his bag quickly, far more so than one would imagine (the time-consuming part was working our potential volume to begin with) and had tipped out John's things just before he exited the bathroom once more.

They got everything ready quickly, though John did have to laugh when Sherlock pulled out a pair of muddy green walking boots. Which he eyed with disgust, and managed to put on without actually touching them.

They went to Mycroft's classroom, as decided earlier.

When they got there, Mycroft and Lestrade were already there, planning, as Sherlock deduced from how close they were standing, the lack of body contact, and the seriousness of their expressions.

Determining that it was not anything personal, he didn't care about interrupting, and simply entered the room in the odd 'Sherlock' manner, bounding halfway across the space in one step.

"Time to go?" He seemed cheerier than normal, but sarcastically, and it was odd enough behaviour that the three other males turned to stare at him.

"Almost." Mycroft turned to Greg. "Have a safe trip, love."

"You, too."

"Oh come on Mycroft, don't get sappy. It's what, an hour?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. " Quite right, Shirley."

He walked across the room., opened the large window, and jumped through it lightly. Even this motion seemed elegant, posh and little pompous, the exact description of Mycroft Holmes. To John and Sherlock, anyway, who were a little biased.

Sherlock followed, running and almost _vaulting _through the space, landing neatly beside his brother.

-o0o0o0o-

They arrived exactly as planned, not a single hitch, no problem with security, nothing. John couldn't help but wonder if the Holmes' brothers were used to intricate planning, or were merely overly cautious.

Once there, they walked two miles into the city, then hailed a cab- since a passenger had just gotten out and it was a fair distance away from the airport, they assumed it was safe.

The cabbie was young, early twenties, and easily accepted that they wanted to take the quickest route to the hotel- either there wasn't really any sights to see, or he did not deem them to be interesting, for he did not press it further in an attempt to earn more money.

When they arrived at the hotel, Sherlock made a few observations, noting that it was in the centre of a high business area, but not far from a more remote settlement- prisons, abandoned warehouses, the usual vaguely interesting buildings.

Also, it was expensive, but more relaxed than the usual Mycroft style.

32 rooms, 4 being full suits on the top floor, a swimming pool, two dinning rooms. Fairly large, without going into the realm of cheap, tacky or easy to find.

It made the two younger boys wonder as to how much practice Mycroft had on previous 'trips'.

Approaching the counter, a woman with a red painted smile stood immediately to attention, neat black and white outfit without a single crease. She seemed a little odd, but that could have been that it looked like she _enjoyed_ her job, which was peculiarly unusual.

"Good evening, and welcome to 'The Armoured Elephant.'" She spoke flawless English, and it was clear that she knew who they were.

It was also clear to John that Greg and Sherlock now knew something he didn't.

"Thank You, Anthea. I trust everything is as ordered?" Mycroft was polite, bordering on nice, and it didn't take Sherlock's skills to realise that they were well-acquainted.

"Of Course, Sir." She walked to a cupboard that held keys.

Sherlock noticed that John looked confused, and quickly explained in a hushed whisper. "Anthea works for Mycroft, but not normally here. He knows she trustworthy, hence the new task. Armoured Elephants is something Mycroft is obsessed with. The subject is in his favourite painting, and he uses some theme of it whenever possible; he owns this hotel."

"Owns a hotel? I thought he was a teacher!"

"He is, but even you have to admit it; teaching is boring. And Mycroft has more than enough ways of raising funds."

Anthea walked back over to them, several things in hand, including a large envelope, a black file and two keys.

"Rooms 30 and 31, sir. Here's the search requested, and this arrived for you this morning, I figured it could wait until you got here." She gave a slight shrug, and Mycroft took everything off of her with another 'thanks'.

They all walked a distance away from the counter, and Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a raised eyebrow.

"Really, Mycroft?"

"Yep. We haven't been away in a while, might as well make the most of the opportunity."

"If I hear _anything_, you're both dead."

Mycroft laughed, and John and Greg both looked equally confused.

Poor Sherlock, who knew his big brother had booked the honeymoon suite.

-0o0o0o- End Chapter- -0o0o0o-

A/N- It's nice to actually end a chapter on a light-hearted note! And I think I've now hit 20,000 words, which is really ace! J I've normally given up before chapter 10, or gotten to a point where it takes 3 months to update.

Oymigosh (cringe at actually writing that word :/), I'm so happy about the sudden influx of reviews!

So thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Howling Shadow, Zarra Rous, atheistpolitic, ChaseAwayMyFears, ceres51892, Melted brains, and crazycookBekah J

Ceres51892 - Thank you especially for your review, it was analytical, which I like; it means you read it properly. Some schools are picky about uniform 'cause they often play against other schools, etc, and I hated my middle school PE Kit because it was really fussy. (So is my upper school one. They complain about the colour of my socks.) XD However, I do take your comment into account, and am going to proofread the last few chapters to find that mistake! J xx


	11. Progress

Chapter 11 - Progress

Sherlock and John sprinted up the stairs, Mycroft and Greg following only slightly behind, cursing Sherlock as they ran in an attempt to secure the black folder. And the envelope.

Sherlock had snatched both when the older Holmes was distracted- 'gathering information', with Greg in one of the hotel's cafes.

He had conveniently also stolen the keys to both their rooms, so it was a race to see who could get upstairs first.

"Sherlock Holmes, get back here now! This is simply childish, Sherlock. You're wasting valuable time!" Mycroft tried reasoning, but Sherlock just laughed, noticing his brother was getting out of breath, and sped up, dragging John behind him.

They reached the door whilst the other pair was still at the top of the stairs, and Sherlock opened the door, pushed John inside, and locked it behind him.

Then he promptly collapsed onto the floor, and started hurriedly sorting through the file.

"We have five minutes before he has another key into this room. Come here and help." John did as ordered, reading over Sherlock's shoulder.

Not that there was all that much point, because Sherlock had the file closed and a map out in front of them before John had had the slightest chance to process the information.

And he was drawing on it in a bright pink permanent marker, circling places that met a criteria of which John had no idea.

"Um, Sherlock?" The brunette turned to face him, confused expression in place, them remembered that John hadn't a clue of what they were searching for.

"Obvious, John. Ever met the theatrical types?" John refrained from replying that Sherlock himself was very much the theatrical type, and turned his head slightly, motioning for Sherlock to continue.

"This is, assuming of course, that we are correct, the end of his plans. Therefore, everything before will intersect at the point of his last scene. Which means we have all the clues in the original picture, notes, and other crimes."

Sherlock started writing a massive grid on the wall of the hotel room, and John shrieked at him for the blatant vandalism.

"Sherlock! This is a hotel! You're not actually allowed to do that? Besides, what if someone sees it?"

"It's Mycroft's hotel, I don't care if we're allowed to do this." John gave an indignant snort at 'we're', but Sherlock continued as if we had heard nothing.

"It doesn't matter if anyone sees this. No-one except Mycroft and Lestrade will be allowed in whilst we're still in here, and it doesn't matter once we're gone."

"Cleaners, hotel staff. Anyone of them could just walk right in here."

"Nope, I'm sure Arrabella wont let anyone help her. She's the only person allowed near us whilst we're here."

"I thought her name was Anthea."

"Yes, well, it's not. It's not Arrabella either, but at least they both start with the right letter."

"Then what is her name?"

"A."

"Just A?"

"Yes. Mycroft hired her to help him five years back, when he started some of his less 'civilian' style businesses. She was an orphan with no memories, about to be let out into the world; they only keep them until they're 18. He took her in under the condition that she work for him. Stuck with him ever since."

"She did look very loyal."

"Yes, well." Sherlock nodded back towards the wall.

We need a place where there is something that would fit traits in each of us, seeing as we are most likely the targets, somewhere English, and somewhere private or abandoned within a five miles radius. There has to be cars, and something to do with music. There is three locations for those places, but nothing that would be significant for you or me."

"Yes, there is." John tapped a spot on the map. The old army base, built underneath an abandoned music school.

"Why didn't I see that?"

"Because you think we're the targets."

"We _are_ the targets."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean that he wants to kill us."

"Then why would he want us there? And what's our incentive to turn up, if it's not directed at us, something to beat?"

"The incentive would be his hostages. Sherlock, he has our fathers."

"Why would you assume that? It could be anything. He might just want you to think that."

"Sherlock, _you_ said that all the clues were in the evidence. On the first day we met, you said 'he's in Tibet'. I didn't have the slightest clue what you were on about. But in the photo, my fathers badge and the Ox ring were both in the picture. Hardly coincidental, and well researched if he only wanted to make a point."

"Well done, Mr Watson. It seems Sherlock is rubbing off on you." The teenagers hadn't noticed the door being opened, and Mycroft and Lestrade had been watching for awhile, Lestrade looking a little scandalised by the pink and black that ruined the cream walls.

"Great. Mycroft, we need to get to the other side of town."

"Yes, I can see that, Shirley. But we don't need to go until tomorrow."

"I thought head-starts were supposed to be good things."

"And they are. You saw the dates and times of all the others. We have until eleven PM tomorrow before we even need to be there, Sherlock. We will be there by eight. Tonight, we will all stay here."

Sherlock turned sulky, but nodded his assent.

"If you two order room service, A will bring it up." Mycroft plucked the key for his room from the floor, and left the room, Greg following behind him.

John, finally realising that he himself had said, promptly fainted, making Sherlock jump up to catch him.

_His father was __**alive.**_ For now.


	12. Finally Playing The Game

Chapter 12- Finally Playing The Game?

The next day passed in a strange slow blur, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor doing literally nothing in an attempt to think, and John being terribly embarrassed at fainting, then getting over it and moving onto doing a bumper book of Sudoku puzzles.

On into the afternoon, Sherlock began twitching, and by 7.30 had gotten up from the floor, and was practically bouncing around the room, shouting at anyone and everything in an authoritative tone, trying to get everyone to just '_Go'_ already.

It made John wonder if Sherlock had any sort of violence complex, a desire to run into murderers and other dangers. But, he had to admit, there was a sort of thrill in knowing that they were about to seek our a mass-murderer, a person who had killed purely for _them._

Though that was also a little unnerving, but that part seemed to be lost on Sherlock.

Whilst Sherlock was bumbling around, the other boy just stood, completely still, save for the unending sharp flexing of his left hand.

Which did not go unnoticed by the young detective. When he next passed John on his rounds of the room, he paused, grabbed his friends hand, and started pulling the shorter boy along with him.

That so happened to quickly lead to skipping around giggling, a physical use for their adrenaline and nerves.

Not that Lestrade appreciated it, when he walked into the room, _trying _to tell them to get ready to leave, only to be almost run over by the pair.

He laughed a little, shaking his head, eyebrows raised, then turned back and the left the room again.

He returned, two minutes later, with Mycroft in tow. The eldest Holmes grabbed Sherlock's arm mid skip, pulling both boys to an abrupt halt.

Which, rather comically, caused the great Sherlock Holmes to stumble, then glare at his older brother. Who just replied with his usual smug smile, before exiting the room, knowing his three companions would follow him. They did.

Sherlock stopped his skipping in favour for running down the stairs, still dragging John behind him.

*_* 0o0o0*_*

The journey was entirely uneventful, and when they finally got there, Sherlock caused a half-asleep John to jump to attention, with the noise he made simply by getting out of the car.

They all jogged cautiously around the outside of the building, before both Holmes brothers took off through the back door, causing the remaining two to share a look of confusion.

Actually going through the door? How normal.

They did not question outright though; that would waste time. Instead, the loyal men ran after their partners in complete silence.

The door ran directly to a small corridor, straight to the stairs that allowed one to access all rooms below ground level.

Straight Holmes genius, that. Simply walking in to the quickest route, rather than sneaking around; doing that, one would actually have _more _chance of being caught.

It only took two minutes for them to find the 'scene'.

Well, for the 'scene' to find them.

They were halfway down the first passageway when a figure stepped out from behind one of the doors.

He was rather short, around 5'6 at the most, but definitely male, possibly a couple of years older than the younger pair of the quartet.

He was wearing a suit, both hands in the pockets of his trousers, though he removed one hand to gesture them all towards the room.

"This way please. The sooner we're all sat, the quicker the show can begin." He smiled politely, waving them into the room before him.

Sherlock and Mycroft immediately did as requested, the elder slightly behind the younger, and again, the other two were completely baffled.

But it only took one small nod from the short man with black hair, and they were following yet again.

The room was large, and appeared to be converted somewhat to make it more comfortable. Radiators, a row of chairs, and various memento's of remnants of past cases.

Even a stage, with a closed curtain, that the chairs faced.

They all sat, and the strange young man stood at the top of the stage, facing them.

"Hello, Gentlemen. My name is Jim Moriarty, and I will be providing the entertainment for this evening."

He skipped along to the curtain pull, in a way scarily similar to how Sherlock had skipped around the room, right down to the silly smile on his face.

That turned scarily serious the second he came to a stop.

With a slow, theatrical bow, he slowly pulled the rope, allowing them to see what was on the stage.

There was two chairs, equidistant from the front of the stage and each other, with a spotlight on each.

Two men. It was very obvious; you didn't have to be Einstein to work out that Mr Watson and Siger Holmes were the two bloodied and tied up individuals in the harsh wooden chairs.

"Let me explain. John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes, the choice is yours."

"What choice?" Sherlock's tone was sharp, and his eyes kept darting to John who was shaking with a mixture of anger and fear.

"Which one lives, and which one dies. Pick one, I don't personally care which. Neither of these people mean _anything _to me."

Moriarty held out a gun, and allowed his small audience to watch as he loaded it with one bullet. Only one.

"I would advise you pick quickly, lads, otherwise we _all _die." He made a ticking noise, and started pacing across the stage, pausing mid step when Sherlock's voice interrupted him.

"Siger Holmes." Jim cocked his head to one side.

"Which?"

"The one that dies."

**A/N- Just a few more chapters left to go. About five, I'd estimate, maybe less. Please Review ! XD **


	13. So Changeable

Chapter 13- So Changeable

"Okee Dokey." Jim Moriarty whirled around and, without further ado, shoot him. One fluid movement. Nothing separated the motion of moving from the action of shooting.

Right in the head. Both Holmes brothers, both surprisingly and not, were unchanged by the action, staring calmly ahead. John, however, screamed in absolute shock and horror.

That was just so…cold. Unreasonable. He'd never seen anything like it.

Sherlock took his hand, squeezing it tightly until the piercing noise ceased.

"What a terrible noise! Audience members always ruin the show." Jim interrupted them, buttoning up an expensive black coat, holding a white handkerchief in his left hand.

Which happened to have the Ox ring on his thumb.

"My suit is ruined, but hey, I guess, in a way you've already paid for it." He spared a fake sympathetic glance at the body of the eldest Holmes, then dabbed at the edge of his collar with the handkerchief.

He walked to the door, then turned to smile at the small group.

"I'd slap him, Shirley. It's supposed to do wonders for shock." He nodded towards John.

With a small skip, the murderer clapped his hands together and happily bounded from the room, the door loudly clattering shut behind him.

And poor John very almost fainted once again. Instead, he shook his head sharply, then sprinted towards where his own father was still bound up.

Greg went to check Siger, making sure he was, indeed, dead. He was.

Both Holmes brothers remained unchanged.

John, hands fumbling, tried to untie his father. He was shaking too much, and made very little progress on his own. In the end, Sherlock went over to help, wrapping both of his arms around the other boy as he undid all knots. Once finished, he squeezed John into a hug, then let go.

The man pulled the gag from his mouth- Sherlock had undone everything restraining his hands.

"Johnny!" He enveloped the young boy in an ecstatic hug. John shakily returned it.

When he finally let go, Mr Watson stepped back, eyes checking his son's expression.

"Are you okay? How have you all been? What on earth are you doing here?" He rambled the questions, almost merging them all together.

"I'm fine, Dad. We've been okay, missed you though. And I'm here, because that's where Sherlock worked out you all would be." Sherlock snorted, and rolled his eyes.

"Translated: No, he's not alright, he has gone into shock. But at least he hasn't fainted like yesterday. They haven't been okay, John Mrs Watson and even Harriet thought you were dead, and have been predictably miserable. You're wife cannot stop crying, your gay daughter is pretty much living with her girlfriend, and John was determined to follow in your footsteps. Well, without the dying part. And, we are here, because your son worked out that this is where you and Siger would be." Sherlock said the whole thing in a fairly dead voice, motioning at his dead relative at the end.

Mycroft swiped his palm across the back of Sherlock's head, going through the motion of chastising him. Followed by patting him on the head. It defeated the point of the first action, really.

"And you are?" Mr Watson sounded slightly amused, though obviously a little shaken, and generally upset.

"He is Sherlock. John's boyfriend. I'm Mycroft, and over there is my partner, Greg." Mycroft answered for him, and both teenagers glared at the word boyfriend. That was akin to Sherlock admitting to relationships of any kind, and equal to John outright telling his already distressed father that he may be just the slightest bit gay. And that would be a mild 'coming out'.

Watson looked surprised, but only a little. It did pale in comparison to being kidnapped, tortured, and found by your son, whose friend orders for his own father to be shot.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. And you two." He greeted them all in an attempt at natural politeness, but he sounded exhausted, and rightly so.

"Ahem. Well, as introductions go, this is not ideal. It would be wise to leave about now, when there is the least chance of an ambush." Mycroft was already edging towards the door.

Sherlock went and grabbed John's hand, pulling him lightly. He seemed more than a little overwhelmed.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Your father is dead." John was frowning at him, and Sherlock was not entirely sure of what he had currently done wrong.

"I know. I am the one that ordered it."

"You don't seem upset. Like, not at all. Not even a little bit."

"Why should I be?" He tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in indignation.

"He's your _dad_, Sherlock."

"I know that. I just wish I had the chance to tell him I actually am gay. That would have given him a heart attack in itself."

"Don't be so harsh, Shirley. We both know you do regret it later." Mycroft's voice was soft, soothing, and he ruffled his little brother's hair.

"You don't care either." Sherlock used his sulky tone, pouting at Mycroft.

"I stopped caring when you ended up in hospital." Mycroft quietly agreed.

Then he took out a phone, made a call in a foreign language, then shut it off.

"Let's go." Sherlock frowned at him for five seconds, realised what the phone call was, then nodded and started walking again, still dragging John behind him.

"Aren't you going to do something about the body?" John asked Sherlock. To him, even though Sherlock appeared to have hated the man, leaving his corpse was just cruel.

"Mycroft just sorted that."

With a nod, they all finally exited the building.

There was nobody noticeable outside, similar to when they had arrived. With a sensibly cautious look around, they headed directly for the rented car that was waiting for them.

All got in, Mycroft and Greg up front, the other three in the back, when Mycroft swore. Foully, but still in his normal tone of voice.

"What?" Greg asked him, whilst Sherlock was sniggering to John ("Teehee, Mycroft swore!")

"We have a problem."

"What, the pink fake ticket on the car?" Sherlock was close to outright laughing.

"Yes, Sherlock. This is a threat on your life! And Johns! This is not even close to funny."

"Pass it here." Mycroft did, and Sherlock handed it to John, who hadn't yet seen it.

Pink, with a picture of Moriarty's head on it. In a cartoon style bubble, there was text.

"Whoopsies, You've parked on a very private piece of land. Go to Jail, and do not pick up £200 if you pass go. I am _very_ changeable, and I have now decided I no longer want to keep you alive after all. Now, we all love a good chase, so tread carefully, lads."

John couldn't help it. In his hysterical state, he found the picture hilarious, and ended up laughing along with Sherlock.

Mycroft ignored them, and ordered Greg to begin driving.


	14. Splintered Glass

Chapter 14- Splintered Glass.

They were all on edge, and Sherlock was unnecessarily suspicious of everything that came close to either John or him, even going so far as to test random objects for substances that John had never even heard of.

Mr Watson, who could not return home, for none of them knew how to fully handle the procedure, was staying for a little while at the school, in the rooms that belonged to Gregory Lestrade, but were never used.

Mr Watson settled in well, and took a liking to Sherlock, talking fine so long as he ignored the fact that the boy shared a room with his own son. (John had sort of migrated there, a little frightened by Anderson and his various tasteless partners.)

The school wondered about the absence of the two teachers, and of the strangest two students, and were also baffled by the man that arrived back at the school with them, but their questions went unanswered.

The police wanted an explanation too, but did not get one, for Sherlock refused to talk until they got Moriarty's last move, and Mycroft had agreed with him.

Nothing happened for over a week, except Sherlock bunked all lessons, and John stayed with him.

And Mycroft didn't tell them off.

It took a week for Sherlock to sleep, and when he did, John finally noticed something.

Neither had looked at the evidence, they had a silent mutual agreement that doing so would make everything worse.

Sherlock had spent the first few days in a shock that he would not admit to, and the next few after questioning his own behaviour, and the abnormality of merely feeling happy for John, and not even close to sorry for himself.

Comforting Sherlock, John had taken all of the evidence, and put it in a cardboard box, without properly looking through any of it.

But once Sherlock was finally asleep, the urge to look through their work was all to much to ignore, though he had tried to almost obsessively.

After two hours, he finally gave in, gently moving the tall brunette that had both arms wrapped around him, and tip-toed over to the other side of the room.

With Sherlock, out of sight was out of mind, and John had placed the box in his schoolbag, away from Sherlock's prying eyes.

Luckily, he had remembered not to zip it up, and when he got the box out, the young boy had only to undo one button, extracting the container without waking his friend.

Within the box, all the evidence was placed neatly in chronological order, and it didn't take John very ling to sort through it all.

But because everything was upside-down, to be placed back as it was before, John finally realised that there was something both him and Sherlock had missed.

The note, with the colour picture. It had been typed, even though it looked like this had been done onto an old bit of mail. At the time, they had been analysing the picture, not that you don't print out something onto an old bit of mail.

But he had.

There was a postage stamp, and a date. But no address. Unusual, but it did make it all look less obvious than if there was some long piece of information.

It wouldn't be an address of any importance, anyway.

John held the stamp under their small lamp, and nearly cried out in shock.

That was the last thing he'd been expecting.

He recognised the stamp immediately, he had seen it many times. The small image was of a large building, with a logo over the top. The school logo. That stamp was on every letter home, every sports day, extra work file, detention letter.

The date beneath it was of that very day.

So, quite definitely deliberate.

But, it didn't have a time.

There was, however, a cartoon style, jagged bubble around the stamp, like usually shown in comics.

Panicking only slightly, John flipped the picture over and back several times, before his eyed caught something. In the picture, there was a clock.

With a time on it, obviously. Digital, with 'made in England' on the side, writing he was just able to see.

_Made in England. _That wasn't ordinary, England was hardly the country known for exporting electronics.

_Made in England._

It finally clicked.

The time read 11: 49.

It was currently 11: 38.

In eleven minutes, the school would explode.

"Sherlock. Sherlock." John ran back over to him, shaking the other boy. Sherlock would know what to do. Sherlock always knew what to do.

Sherlock didn't move. He was fast asleep.

John placed the stamped note right under his nose, in case he woke up, then ran down to Mycroft and Greg's room, which was three corridors across.

There, he pounded frantically against the door, waking up half the hallway.

A groggy Mycroft opened the door, took one look at John, and snapped into business mode.

"What is it?"

"At 11:49, the whole school is going to explode." He wasn't going to dance around it. They needed to think of something, and think of it fast.

Mycroft just accepted this, without any questions as to how or what.

"Okay, where's Sherlock?"

"Wouldn't wake up."

Mycroft looked concerned but shook it off.

"I'll start getting people out. You, hit the nearest fire alarm, then get Sherlock."

John nodded in response, then took off back down the hallway, running as fast as he could.

The school fire alarms were fairly old, and had no 'Break Glass' panel. He merely had to jump, and hit the flat metal circle, which immediately started ringing.

A few floors up, he could faintly hear the next one go off; at least the whole system was in order.

Then, he ran back, hoping Sherlock was finally up.

When he got into their room, the bed was empty, and John was filled with a relief.

Relief that was short lived, as he realised that Sherlock wasn't in his rooms at all.

John was suddenly overcome with panic, now only for Sherlock.

He looked up and down the hallway, noticed that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, then left the building with the crowds, hoping Sherlock had done similar.

Outside, he quickly found Mycroft and Greg, in matching grey pyjamas, something that normally would have amused both him and Sherlock.

"Where's Sherlock?" Both of the men looked at him curiously.

"We thought he was with you." Mycroft frowned in confusion.

"I went to check on him, but he wasn't in there. Nowhere in sight."

John turned away, eyes scanning the crowd.

"Fuck, shit, shit. Shit." He spun in a circle, still looking for his brunette companion.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Neither of the two guys next to him were commenting, and they looked almost as distressed as John felt.

"One minute." The eldest Holmes muttered, now joining in the search for his brother.

"JOHN!" He turned towards the voice he so easily recognised, noticing Sherlock running up to him, as fast as he could through the crowd.

All three of the others sighed in relief. Trust Sherlock to show up in the nick of time.

He had barely reached John before there was an loud bang, but not the explosion they had expected. Nope, and implosion of all of the buildings closest to the people. All except one.

The block of rooms, the one that included Sherlock's, exploded, causing Splintered bits of glass to fly, landing only centimetres from the teenagers at the front of the group. And they had still been pretty far back.

As that noise ended, that of the talk of students and teachers alike rose, and though the event had ended, they could still barely hear the people standing next to them.

Now Sherlock was safe, John looked around for the eldest Watson, until Sherlock lifted one pale hand to point at a large gaggle of teachers, one of which who had engaged Mr Watson in conversation.

He was alright. Everyone was alright.

"Well done, John." Sherlock was impressed and pleased he hadn't had to play hero.

John blushed slightly, but slapped Sherlock lightly on the back of the head.

"You scared me, you git.""I'm sorry."

"You better be." John tried to frown at him, but didn't quite manage. He was too giddy on the fact that everyone was ALIVE.

And that was a strong damn thing to be drunk on.

Sherlock leaned down, and pressed a kiss to John's lips. He, too, could not have been any higher.

John kissed him back, and not a single narrow-minded student commented.

Trust an explosion to put everything into perspective.

THE END

A/N- THE END! I actually finished this! Wow, this is also my longest finished fic. Quite proud of myself, actually. This was originally going to end in fluff 'n' smut, but hey-ho. Want some of that, check out my other Sherlock fics.

I might add an epilogue, at some later point, not sure. Right now I'm celebrating a solved sort of case. XD Please review, you have reached the end!


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